Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ian stands in his tiny kitchen, carefully unfolding the paper from his coat pocket. The print is large and there are tabs with phone numbers on the bottom. He knows he was supposed to tear just one off and not take the whole thing, but something made him look over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching before he pulled it off the bulletin board.

The books are still on the table. He had grabbed a book by Hemingway and a mystery novel, and considered a book about cats just because he feels like he doesn’t really know anything about them. His phone is sitting there right on top. He grabs it and dials the number on the flyer before he loses his nerve.

His cat rubs against his leg. He’s about to reach down to pet her when a woman answers.

“Malcolm X.”

“Hey, I’m calling about a job? I saw a flyer at the library yesterday? I don’t know what you need from me, but I—“

“You have to come in with a resume,” the woman says quickly. “You can’t just email it, you have to have an interview and bring it in when you come.”

“Um, I’m,” he stammers. “Um, I don’t have a degree.”

“You don’t need your college degree.”.

“No,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t finish high school. See, I had this, like, medical problem? And then I had to—”

“Look.” She sighs. “I’m not the one who makes the policies. I don’t know about all that.” In the background, someone starts yelling something. “Hold on.” There’s a scratching sound like she has her hand over the mouthpiece, and then the murmur of her voice.

He contemplates hanging up, but then she’s back.

“He says you can come in tomorrow morning,” she says. “Write this down.”

He spins around, scanning the counter for a pen. He sees one stuck in the rooster mug he brought from home when he moved into his own apartment.

“Okay,” he says, but she’s already saying something.

“10 a.m. You’re gonna want to walk all the way down to—”

The cat starts to yell at him. He already fed her. He scowls and nudges her away with his foot, but she yelps in protest. He scribbles on his hand to get the pen moving.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “What was that?”

The woman sighs again, loudly. “I said you’re going to walk all the way down the main hallway and go to the right, then through the double doors and you’ll see a door immediately on your left.”

He shakes the pen. “Okay.”

“No, that’s not the right door. You want to take the one down the hall to the right. Can’t miss it.”

He looks down at the pen marks on his hand. He can’t even read his own handwriting. “Is this on the side with the library on it or the other side?”

“It’s the library side, but you don’t go in the library, you go down the main hallway. I already said that at the start.”

“I must have missed it,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m a little bit-”

“Distracted?”

Fuck. He tosses the pen in the direction of the rooster mug. Misses.

“I’m sorry, it’s my cat. She’s so loud.”

“10 a.m. He doesn’t have a lot of time, so make sure you’re prompt.”

“Mr.?”

“Walker,” she says. “Mr. Walker. Bring your resume.” She pauses. “Do you know how to write a resume?”

“Yes,” he lies. That’s what the internet is for.

“Don’t be late,” she says, and hangs up.

Ian looks over at the cat, still pacing around her bowl. He shakes his head and scoops her up. She’s still skinny. Marbled orange and black, the tiniest hint of white on her toes. Tortoiseshell, it’s called. He found her under the train at Holman eating garbage in the snow a month ago. Scooped her up. Brought her home.

“Okay Bill. You win.” He dumps some food in her dish and gives her a scratch before setting her back down.

The studio is so small he can see his bed without even moving his eyes much. He hasn’t made his bed yet. Fiona would have his ass for that. The army, too. But he doesn’t have to answer to either of them anymore. He makes it anyway. He lets his hand linger on the side of the bed that isn’t his. It’s been a while since someone laid there.

Meds. Okay, yeah. He heads back into the kitchen and grabs them from the windowsill. He shakes three into his palm and throws them back with the last of his coffee.

The internet says he needs special paper for a resume. Something with a watermark. But first he has to write it. He finds a free template and starts to type.

What should he say? Good reader? Fast reader? Voracious reader. Big words are good. He should write that he tested out of English in high school, right? Right. They’ll like that. Will they like that?

He leans back in his chair. Should he just scrap it all? Write down the truth? Mentally ill fuckup drops out of high school so he can join the army under his brother’s identity? Should he include how he just barely stayed out of military jail because of his mental health crisis? Should he wax poetic on becoming an underage sex worker with a drug habit? Fess up to being hospitalized three times? Nah, no one wants to hear about that. Not even him, and he’s the sad bastard that had to live it.

He manages to cobble something together. He grabs his wallet and laptop and heads out for the copy store down the block. They’ll tell him what to do. Somebody, somewhere, needs to tell him what to do.

*

The train doors can’t open fast enough. Shit. Fuck. He checks his watch. 9:47. He takes the stairs two at a time, pressing people out of the way. He murmurs apologies, but doesn’t really mean them.

Malcolm X isn’t too far, and even though the sidewalk isn’t fully shoveled off, he doesn’t slip when he runs. February sucks. Old dirty snow under his shoes. Grey skies that refuse to give any shred of hope at all. Spring feels so far away.

Shit shit shit. Okay. Library side is around the corner. He slows down, heart pounding. He throws the door open and looks down at his smudged hand. Oh, fuck him. He can’t make out a word. Focus. Down the hallway, right? Double doors. Check. Door on the left, okay. Now where? Down the hall. Wait, there are two doors. Right? Left? He looks down at his hand.

“What you need help findin?”

He looks up, straight into blue eyes. “Mr. Walker?” He takes a step forward. “I’m sorry I’m late, I’m Ian? Ian Gallagher?”

The man scoffs. “I’m not that stupid fuck. I’m just one of the sorry assholes that has to be here for my probation.”

“Oh,” Ian says, trying to figure out how to exit this situation and get where he needs to go. He glances down at his watch. 10:06.

“I boring you?” His voice is tough, but when Ian looks up, the man is cracking a smile.

“Yeah,” Ian says, “I mean, no. I mean, wait.”

The man laughs and points to Ian’s right. “In there.”

“Thanks,” Ian pants.

“Eh,” the guy says. “Take a fuckin’ breath. You look like you were runnin.”

Ian huffs out a smile. “I was,” he says. “I’m late for my appointment.”

“Breathe” he says, and there’s something about this guy’s voice that’s soothing, despite the almost sarcastic delivery. He grins and shakes his head. “What are you doing—”

The door swings open

“Mr. Walker?” Ian extends his hand, but he doesn’t take it. “I’m sorry I’m late, I’m Ian Gallagher. I got a little lost, and...” he turns.

“Mickey,” the man says.

“Mickey,” Ian says quickly. “He had to tell me where your office was. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“You said that already,” Mickey says behind him.

Mr. Walker rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the library with the rest of them?”

Mickey laughs. “You the principal now?”

Mr. Walker ignores him. “Come into my office, Ian,” he says, and steps aside. “Thanks for your assistance, Mr. Milkovich.”

Ian glances back just in time to see Mickey walking backwards down the hall, grinning, dragging his hand down the wall. For a second Ian feels like he’s back in high school. But this isn’t high school, and it’s not a time to be attracted to a guy who gave him directions for five seconds. Christ, it’s been a long time, though.

“Mr. Gallagher?”

“Right,” he says. He thrusts the folder at Mr. Walker, who chuckles and takes it. He gestures to a chair, and Ian sits.

Ian folds his long hands as Mr. Walker looks over his sad excuse for a resume. He tried to pick the right kind of paper. The right font. The right everything. He wants so badly to just be right for once.

“You don’t have your degree?” Mr. Walker’s eyes don’t leave the paper. “Not a GED, anything?”

“No, sir. I had this medical...thing, and I couldn’t finish.”

“And you want to teach?”

“Yes, sir.”

He closes the folder. “Why do you want to teach?”

“Because I like to read,” he says, and something clicks over in him. A confidence. “And if someone wants to read, I wanna help.”

“Have you ever been a tutor? Maybe kids in your neighborhood?”

“My brother,” he says, but then wonders why he brought Lip into this. “He did, but I didn’t. I helped a friend with her English homework a lot, but she never, like, paid me.”

“Who was your favorite English teacher? I know some of the teachers at your old high school.”

“Mrs. Simmons?”

He smiles. “Grace Simmons,” he says. “She’s a good friend.”

“She’s a great teacher,” Ian says. “She’s the one who told me I should teach. And she’s the one who got me hooked up with that program at the library. I took the test.”

Mr. Walker nods. “And you passed the test?” He opens the folder again.

“I can’t find the certificate, but I did pass it. I could take it again.”

“Not necessary.”

Ian clears his throat. Mr. Walker doesn’t look up for nearly a full minute.

“Do you know that this job pays almost nothing? It’s minimum wage. It’s nearly volunteer work. We just had a hard time keeping volunteers. Not everyone wants to deal with the parolees in particular.”

Ian opens and closes his mouth. “Are they all on parole?”

Mr. Walker shrugs. “Not all. But ever since NPR started that series on prison programs someone got a wild hair up their ass and now here we are.”

“And no one can read?” He furrows his brow.

“These guys,” Mr. Walker sighs. “They’re guys who got a tough break. Non-violent offenses. Drugs, mostly. And they aren’t stupid. It’s an easy check mark on the P.O’s playbook. Gets them in good graces. They don’t want to read the great American novel, okay? It says here you like to read, but these guys just want to fill out job applications and read bills, maybe read books to their kids. Honestly, most guys can read fine. Like I said, the radio gave someone a wild hair. It’s a quick couple weeks and then they rotate out.”

“A couple weeks? Someone is supposed to get better at reading in two weeks?”

“That’s the introduction. If they want to stay on they can get approved by their P.O. and do a short course. That wouldn’t be you, though. We have real teachers for that.”

“So this is more like tutoring, then?”

There’s a short nod. Mr. Walker puts his hand on Ian’s folder. “Listen,” he says slowly. “Let me talk to Grace and see what she has to say about you. If she remembers you in a positive way, you and I can talk. I’ll see if I can talk with her today, and then I’ll call you.”

Ian can’t help beaming. “Thank you, sir. I’m-”

“Woah woah,” he says. “Slow down. We’ll see.” He stands up and extends his hand. Ian quickly stands up, gives a hearty shake.

“Thank you,” he says again, backing out of the doorway. He tries to play it cool. He’s never been able to play anything cool.

He makes a stop at the water fountain outside the double doors, and wipes at his chin. He’s walking outside and sliding on his fingerless gloves when he hears a voice.

“You get that job?”

Mickey. He’s leaning against the building, cigarette in hand. It isn’t lit. He’s patting his pockets.

Ian shrugs. “Don’t know yet.” He pats his own pocket. “You need a lighter?”

“Yeah, man.”

Ian doesn’t smoke all that much anymore, not like he used to, but he still has a lighter in his pocket. He passes it over. Mickey’s nails are short and his hands look chapped.

“Don’t know where my gloves are,” he grunts. “If my sister still lived here it'd be her fault.” He pops the cigarette in his mouth and lights it. “She can never keep track of her shit.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Mickey’s coat is big on him, and his ears look cold. Everything about his appearance says he’s cold, but his voice does not waver and he does not shiver. He blows the smoke out his nose and glances down the street. It occurs to him, then, that Mickey’s lips are not chapped in the slightest. He stares at them, pillowed and soft-looking, and they part slowly as Mickey pops the cigarette in his mouth.

“What.”

Ian shakes his head. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“What,” Mickey says again, grunting around the cigarette in his mouth. “You need a smoke or something?”

Ian shifts his feet. “Sure. Why not.”

That’s when he can see the cold, just a little bit, in Mickey’s trembling fingers as he opens the pack, singling out a single cigarette and passing it over with the lighter.

The cigarette tastes good. Ian leans against the building too.

“So what’s the job?”

Ian breathes the smoke out. “It’s tutoring,” he says. “I guess.”

“What kind?”

“Reading.”

Mickey pauses. “Like, how to read?”

Ian nods. “I guess,” he says again. “But I don’t know if I have the job, yet. I’d probably still bartend though, even if I get it. Sounds like this doesn’t pay much.”

Mickey kicks at the snow. “Where’d you learn how to bartend?”

Ian hesitates. He can see it now. Him in a glittery tank top behind the bar, laughing and matching patrons shot for shot. Lights flashing, music thumping, men, men, men. He shifts his feet.

Mickey chuckles. “Too personal?”

Fuck it. “I learned at this terrible place in Boystown, but now I work at this place called The Alibi. Not in Boystown.”

There’s a little flash in Mickey’s eyes, and then he looks down. He kicks at the snow again. “Where?”

“The Alibi? It’s over by-”

“No,” he says quickly. One shoulder shrugs up. His ears are pink from cold. “Where in Boystown?”

Ian fidgets. He tries hard to read him, but Mickey’s head is still down, the toe of his boot brushing the snow off the sidewalk.

It was the first place he worked, after all that happened. Before the Fairy Tail. Before the hospital and all that happened next. “The White Swallow. It’s, you know.”

Mickey cracks a smile but doesn’t look up. “What. Gay?”

Ian can’t feel his feet. He doesn’t think it’s just because of the cold sidewalk on his thin sneakers.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Gay.”

Mickey looks up, his eyebrows shooting up, wrinkling his forehead. “So you are?”

Ian hasn’t lied about it in a long, long time. Who is this guy anyway? It doesn’t fucking matter. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m gay.” He sets his jaw a little for good measure. “That a problem?”

Mickey laughs and flicks his cigarette into the street. “Okay, tough guy. You can put that chin away. I don’t give a shit.”

Ian plays with the lighter in his hands. It’s quiet. He takes one final drag from his cigarette and drops it, crushing it with his shoe.

“Here,” he says, extending the lighter to Mickey and not looking up. “In case you need it later.”

He looks up into blue eyes, steady on his.

“Thanks,” Mickey says, before coughing once, twice. “It’s fucking cold.”

Ian nods. He jams his hands in his pockets and stands there. “Thanks for the cigarette. I better get going. Let you get back to...what do you have to get back to exactly?”

Mickey grins. “I’m in a class. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Lookin’ at all these squiggle things on a piece of paper.”

“The reading class?”

“You make it sound like someone is teaching us our ABCs. We read shit like National Geographic, mess around on computers learning about how to fill out forms. It’s an easy thing to show the parole officer. That’s all.”

“Still,” Ian says.

“Still what?”

“It sounds nice,” he says, and then regrets it when he sees Mickey’s eyebrows raise up again. “I mean, I like reading, so.”

“I don’t,” he grumbles. “Not good at it. Never have been. Fuck it. Who cares, right?”

Ian shrugs. He looks up at the icicles hanging from the roof of the building. Soon, he thinks, soon this will all melt away. No cold ears, no stolen gloves. In two months, the lilacs will be getting ready to bloom. And in two weeks there won’t be any more Mickey. Two weeks, Mr. Walker said. That’s all. And then he’ll probably be gone. Maybe he’s already been here a while. Who knows. Maybe Ian won’t even see him again.

Ian checks his watch. “Good luck,” he says. “I gotta get my train.”

Mickey nods and reaches for the door handle. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“The White Swallow is a shithole. But at least it wasn’t The Fairy Tail. That’d be so much worse.”

Ian’s jaw is still wide open when Mickey lets the doors shut behind him.

*

The next morning, Lip answers the FaceTime call right away.

“I need you to look at my clothes,” Ian says. “I got a new job tutoring reading at Malcolm X and I don’t know how I should dress.”

“I thought you were still working at The Alibi.”

“I am,” he says, smoothing his pants. “I’m just doing this, too. I still can’t believe I got this job. The guy called Mrs. Simmons from high school. Remember her? I guess she still really likes me.”

“She’s hot,” Lip says. “If you weren’t gay...”

“She’s like 50.”

“So? You fucked Kash.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ian groans. He plays it off as annoyance, but the truth is he doesn’t like thinking about it. “Okay, you ready?”

He turns the camera on his clothes. It’s the best outfit he has. Black pants, green sweater. The one thing he doesn’t have are decent shoes. He keeps meaning to get some, but he never has the money.

“Looks good to me,” Lip says. “But it’s Malcom X. Do you really need to dress up?”

“Probably not. But I thought it might be good to make an impression on my new boss.”

“Who is he?”

“Some guy named Mr. Walker.”

“No,” Lip says, sucking on his vape pen. “The guy you like.”

Ian scoffs. “I don’t like a guy.”

“Bullshit you don’t. And you only dress up for old guys. Is there a 70 year old there? 50 too young for you?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Goodbye, Lip.”

He slides the phone back in his pocket and grabs his coat. He pauses at the mirror by the door and smooths his hand over his hair. Good enough.

The train isn’t late this time, and Ian takes his time walking to the building. Someone cleared the sidewalk and he can see the cloudy stain of salt. If he had nice shoes they’d be wrecked anyway, he thinks. Might as well not have them.

Mr. Walker told him to go right to the library, so he heads down the hall, through the double doors, down the hall, and to the left. He hears voices as he gets closer.

“You did not,” someone says. “No one does that when they’re a little kid.”

A familiar voice. Mickey? Mickey. “I did a lot you wouldn’t believe. You don’t grow up with the world’s shittiest dad without getting some scars. Pistol whipped me more than once.”

“Jesus,” someone else says. “I feel like a pussy. The worst I got from my old man was—”

Everyone stops talking when Ian walks in. There are two other men sitting there with Mickey. One on top of a table, one in front of an old computer.

The guy on the table covers his mouth with his fist as he laughs. “Can we help you with something?”

Ian lets his backpack slide down his arm. “I’m here for tutoring,” he says. “You know, for reading? Writing too, maybe?”

He glances over at Mickey, who has a crooked grin. “What are you all dressed up for?”

Ian ignores it. “Have you seen Mr. Walker? He’s supposed to meet me here and tell me what to do.”

The guy at the computer laughs before starting to type something. “That asshole? He’s not gonna come in here.”

Ian shifts his feet. This suddenly seems like a very bad idea. “Maybe I should go,” he says.

“Sit down, Red.”

Ian turns. Mickey is looking down at a magazine. He doesn’t look up.

“Sit,” Mickey says again. He pushes the chair opposite him out with his foot. “Come on.”

The guy sitting on the table heads over to an stained overstuffed chair. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a book. He catches Ian looking.

“What,” he says. “You think I can’t fuckin’ read? How else do you think I passed the time in the joint?”

Mickey laughs. “Why don’t you go back to sticking your whole goddamn paw in your mouth before you turn a page, Rex.”

“Leave it,” Rex says. “At least I know how to read.”

“Ohhhhh,” the guy at the computer says. “Burn.”

Ian turns to Rex. “What are you reading?”

Rex holds up the cover. “The Devil’s Bed,” he says. “I liked his other books better.” He calls over to the guy at the computer. “I already told you a million times. They’ll track your porn.”

“I’m not looking at porn,” he says back.

“For once,” Mickey says. He grins and looks straight at Ian again. His eyes are so blue. His big coat rests beside him on the table. “Thought I told you to sit down.” He kicks the chair again.

Ian sits.

“I’m looking at jobs on this computer, assholes.”

“O’Leary, you aint gonna get a new job with your attitude,” Mickey says. “Your parole skank’s gonna have you tarring roofs in the spring.”

“Better than bagging groceries,” O’Leary mumbles under his breath.

Ian squeezes his hands together under the table. Mickey’s teeth are straight and white, his lips curled into a smile as he looks over Ian’s shoulder. When he catches his eye again, he smiles back.

“We’re gonna get in trouble with the teacher,” Rex says.

“I’m not a teacher,” Ian says. “I just thought I’d help out.”

“Another savior complex,” Rex says.

“No,” Ian says quickly. “No, not that. I just thought I could—”

“Relax,” Mickey says, leaning forward. “Just ribbin’ ya." He looks past Ian. “Why don’t you dicks do something? I’m trying to learn how to read here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rex says, and goes back to his book. O’Leary slides earbuds into his ears.

“He’s definitely watching porn,” Ian says, peering over.

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says. “No doubt about it.”

“So,” Ian says.

“So.”

“What are you reading?”

Mickey slides the magazine over.

Ian picks it up. “The library subscribes to Guns and Ammo? Seems a little on the nose for this neighborhood.”

Mickey takes it back. “Nah. Brought it from home. My dad had a whole stack by the toilet. My sister threw most of them out when he died, but I snagged a couple.”

“Your dad’s dead?”

“Thank Christ,” Mickey says. “I hope he’s rotting in hell.”

“He was still your dad though,” Ian says quietly. “Are you okay?”

Mickey clears his throat. “More than okay. Wish I coulda killed him myself. Some Nazi shanked him in prison. Hope it hurt.”

Ian thinks about the guns he used at ROTC. He was a good shot. A great shot. It’s been years since he’s held one, though. He watches Mickey look at the magazine. He can’t tell if he’s reading or not.

Ian pulls a notebook out of his bag. He’s been thinking about what to say to him. His pen pauses above the paper a moment before he starts to write.

Were you serious about the Fairy Tail? He slides the book across the table.

Mickey looks down at the paper, but doesn’t pick up the pen. “You can just ask,” he says.

Ian knows he shouldn’t hope. He should just forget that he thought about what Mickey said for a long time last night.

He leans closer, voice low. “Are you? You know?”

Mickey shrugs.

Ian takes the notebook back. Are you out? He drops the pen on top of his words and holds his breath when Mickey picks it up.

His handwriting is terrible, but Ian can read it when Mickey pushes the notebook back across the table. Sure.

Do these guys know?

Mickey looks at the paper for a while. “No. Not like I care, though.” He picks up Guns and Ammo and shakes it. “I know how to handle myself if someone has a problem.”

“Seriously?” Ian hisses. “You’ve...killed someone?”

Mickey shakes his head with a laugh. “Of course not. Beat a guy up once, though. Before I learned how to deal with it. Took me a while to deal with it.”

“Do you go out? Like, to, you know. Those places?”

“Nah. Not unless I need it bad. Not really my scene. Hate all those lights.”

“They take getting used to,” Ian says.

“Wait. Fairy Tail? You work there too?”

Ian nods and reaches for the paper, but Mickey puts his hand on top of it and doesn’t let go.

“Danced,” he says quietly.

Mickey leans back with a laugh. “You were one of those?”

Ian shrugs. “Among other things,” he mumbles. “I don’t like to think about it. It wasn’t a very good time in my life.”

Mickey’s smile fades just a little, just enough. He lifts his hand off the paper and picks up the pen. Ian notices that he grips the pen so tightly, right above the ball point, all his fingers smashed together.

Sorry.

“It’s okay,” Ian says. “It’s over now.”

“You’re better off without that place anyways,” Mickey says. His eyes are soft and beautiful. “All drugs and dicks.”

There’s a noise from behind them. “What’s all drugs and dicks? Your dream job?”

Ian opens and closes his mouth. Might as well test the waters. “A club I worked at,” he says quickly. “A gay club.”

Rex laughs. “Sounds like it sucked from what I heard.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business,” Mickey says, annoyed, just a little too quickly.

“This book is boring though.” Rex tosses it on the ground. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Pick a new one?” Mickey gestures around them. “It’s a fucking library.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rex stands and disappears into the stacks.

Ian meets Mickey’s eyes, but Mickey looks away before he speaks. “Why’d you say that?”

Ian shrugs. “Why not? I’m not closeted.”

“Yeah,” Mickey whispers. “I know, but you gotta watch yourself just in case, you know? Had to watch my back in prison. So I wait until I know someone. Even then you won’t catch me at a pride parade.”

“You won’t catch me at one either.”

Mickey grins wide and closes Guns and Ammo. “You wanna get out of here?”

Ian’s eyes widen. “You mean should we, like—”

“Sure,” Mickey says, looking at his lips before his eyes flick back up again.“You wanna?”

Ian looks at his watch nervously because he isn’t sure what else to do.

“What, you got somewhere you gotta be?” There’s a little bit of an edge to Mickey’s voice and his smile drops.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Here. I’m supposed to stay for four more hours.”

Mickey stands up. “Well, I gotta go,” he says sharply.

“Go where?” Ian stands up too. “You don’t have to. We can just talk.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says, and zips up his coat. “See ya.”

Ian sits down slowly. Guns and Ammo is still on the table. It’s wrinkled and bent. He sighs. Yes, he just turned down sex after a long dry spell. But he doesn't fuck strangers anymore. He’s done enough of that for four lifetimes.

But is Mickey a stranger? A stranger is someone whose name you don’t know, who you can barely see under the lights and the drugs and all the rest of it. A stranger is some guy who makes eyes at you in the dollar store and you end up jacking off in the alley. He’s at least talked to him, which is more than he’s done countless times before.

Mickey’s different. He just is.

“Great,” he mutters. He puts his head down on the table and taps his forehead against it twice. “Fuck.”

He feels a firm hand on his shoulder. Rex laughs. “You really screwed that one up.”

Chapter Text

Mickey doesn’t show up the next morning. Or the next.

“Off licking his wounds,” Rex says as he pushes the library cart on the third day. “You denied him pretty hard. I mean, checking your watch? Who even wears a watch?”

The librarian asked if they would start shelving since they were there anyway. Ian isn’t complaining. It’s soothing. Orderly.

“I was caught off guard.” Ian turns a book over in his hands. It’s not the whole truth. That’s not all. “It's complicated.”

“What’s complicated about getting your dick wet?” Rex squints at the numbers on the shelf. “You didn’t see him looking at you like you were a whole meal.”

“So you knew? That he’s—”

“Gay?” he says. “Sure. You two were talking loud enough for me to put pieces together.”

Ian slides a book over on the cart, grouping them together. “I don’t expect him to come back. Maybe I should quit. He needs this for his probation, right?”

Rex shrugs. “You can’t quit, man. What’s Walker gonna think?” Rex points a book at him. “I’ll tell you what he’ll think. The criminals scared off yet another teacher. The last lady quit on the first day.” He pauses, looks at the ceiling. “Probably because O’Leary was watching porn without headphones.”

“Great.” Ian sighs. “At least he has headphones now, I guess.”

“If you ask real nice I bet he’ll put on some that’s more up your alley.” Rex gives him a nudge of the elbow.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Rex says. He pats the cart. “I got this. You have to talk to O’Leary or he’s going to get in trouble again.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but heads back out of the stacks.

“Hey,” he says to O’Leary’s back. He doesn’t turn around. “Hey!” He still doesn’t turn.

The flesh on the computer screen moves fast. Ian was more the magazine type. After what happened, he wasn’t interested in watching anymore. Porn is forever. He’s out there, somewhere. Strung out on mania, bending a guy over whose face he doesn’t even remember now. He’s become a smear in his memory. Almost faceless. His doctor says it’s because his consent wasn’t always clear, and his sexuality had become a sort of currency. He couldn’t take anything back even if he wanted to. And he wants to.

Ian reaches out and pushes O'Leary's shoulder. “Hey! I’m talking to you.”

He doesn’t mean to push him hard, but O’Leary turns fast and punches Ian in the stomach. He doubles over, gasping.

O’Leary’s eyes fly wide. “Shit,” he says. “Sorry, man. You can’t sneak up on people who’ve been in prison.”

“Are you serious? Fuck! That hurt.” He slowly stands, trying to catch his breath.

On the screen, there’s a close up. Ian looks away fast. It’s that part he remembers most. That camera focused on his dick. The director shouting for the shot to be tighter, tighter. He’s starting to sweat, his hand going clammy against his shirt. He is unable to breathe, and within a minute, he knows it has nothing to do with the punch to the stomach.

Notebook. He needs his notebook.

“I’m sorry,” O’Leary says again.

“Turn that shit off!” Ian is surprised at the sharp sound of his own voice. “You think they aren’t tracking you? You think your P.O. is going to count this as reading? What the fuck, man?”

Ian can hear Rex laughing somewhere.

His notebook. It’s in his bag.

On the way to the table he finds the GED study guide. “Do this,” he says, and slams it next to the computer.

“Took the test in prison,” he says with a laugh. “What else ya got?”

Ian ignores him. Fine. Let him watch all the porn he wants. People are obsessed with porn. People. They watch. They watched him. They watched him, and are still watching him. He’s out there right now, on someone’s laptop, phone, tv. He’s there. He’s—

He opens to a blank page and tries to breathe. His hands are shaking. They do this sometimes. His mind scatters like broken glass. He tries to grab onto something, anything.

He writes COLORS on the top of the page. He writes down all the usual suspects. Red green yellow blue. But that’s easy. He has to slow down more. Think.

Magenta. Lavender. Cerulean. Periwinkle.

Good. He’s breathing. He drops the pen and flexes his fingers.

“You okay?”

Ian doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Mickey. Yet, there he is, lips slightly parted, brow furrowed. Ian tries covering his paper, but he knows Mickey has seen it already.

“You like colors, huh?”

Ian tries to laugh, somewhat succeeds. “It’s this...memory exercise. Kind of.”

Mickey sits down across from him. He stares at the notebook for a moment, then reaches for it. He opens to a new page and starts drawing. “Look,” he begins, “shouldn’t have stormed out like that. That was fuckin’ stupid. Not like you have to bang me just cause we’re both into cock, right?”

Ian nods.

“So let’s just forget it,” Mickey says. “Okay?”

He watches Mickey’s fingers on the pen. They are more relaxed, further up on the pen, not all bunched together. He’s drawing something with a lot of shaded lines.

“The ocean,” Mickey says. He sits back and inspects his work. “You ever been?”

Ian shakes his head. “I haven’t been any farther than Indiana.”

“Me neither,” Mickey says, going back to shading. “Like to go someday though. Somewhere away from the cold. Sunshine, sand, all that shit.” He looks at Ian and grins. “Bet your pale ass burns like a motherfucker.” Mickey looks somewhere over his shoulder. “You got O’Leary off the porn,” he says. “He's filling out a form or something.”

“Probably just signing up for a premium membership,” Ian grumbles.

“Nah,” Mickey says. He squints. “Something with a Chicago banner. Maybe a city thing. He wants a new job. But he’s kidding himself if he thinks he can work for the city. Not even garbage would want him.” He goes back to sketching, adds the sand, a palm tree.

“Where do you work?”

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Used to work construction. Was good at it, too. But then all this shit happened, and now I’m a fuckin dishwasher at this place called Patsy’s. You know that place?”

Ian nods. “My sister used to work there before she moved to Florida.”

Mickey’s eyes get wide. “You got a sister in Florida and you’re still living here?”

Ian shrugs. “Don’t talk with her that much.”

Mickey lets him drop it, and Ian is glad for it. “You like it? Dishwashing?”

“You serious? You ever wash dishes? Gross and hot. Being in prison is better.” He pushes the notebook back over to Ian. Drops the pen. “But a job’s a job, right?”

Ian shrugs. “Some are definitely better than others. Rather wash dishes then stand in The Fairy Tail for even five minutes.”

“That place really messed you up, huh.”

Ian scrubs his face with his hands. “Something like that.”

“How’d you end up there anyways? You could be a bartender anywhere. How’d you end up on a fucking box thrusting your crotch at people?” He starts to laugh before he sees Ian’s face. He lets the smile fade. “Just wonderin’ why.”

“Because I was underage and mentally ill,” he says bluntly. “Am. Am mentally ill.”

“You’re what?”

“Oh,” Ian says, a forced laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to say ‘mental health challenges.’ That’s what the therapist at the hospital told me.”

“You mean like what, seeing things?”

“I have,” Ian says. “If I’m honest, yes. But not in a very long time. On a lot of meds. It’s a mood disorder called bipolar. I have it under control.”

Mickey doesn’t meet his eyes.

“So you dodged a bullet,” Ian says, sighing. “You don’t want to fuck some broken crazy person anyway.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything. Ian watches him scratch at his eyebrow with his thumb.

“I think I should go,” Ian says, standing up and shoving his notebook in his backpack. “This is just...I don’t know. It’s not for me.”

Mickey points to the chair. “Sit.”

He doesn’t know why he listens, but he does. He sits.

Mickey looks up. “I drugged my sister’s abusive boyfriend and locked him in one of those portable storage units.”

Ian’s mouth falls open, just a little, just enough. “You what?”

“That’s how come I was in prison,” he says. “This guy Kenyatta was beating the shit out of my sister, and I drugged him and put him in a storage unit on the back of a trailer. Thought it would take him away somewhere before he came to, but they heard him pounding on it. One thing leads to another and my ass is doing three years.”

“Wow,” Ian says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “That’s…”

“So you aren’t the only one who dodged a bullet,” Mickey says quietly. “I’m broken too.” He looks up slowly. Blue eyes push on green and something floats between them, something raw and real. Ian knows he should look away, not let it linger, but he can’t break the contact. Neither, it seems, can Mickey.

Rex rounds the corner. “Hey,” he says. “Cool if I go get some lunch?”

Ian looks around the room. “Me? I don’t care. Sure.”

“O’Leary, you want lunch?” A pause, a toss of a book. “O’Leary!”

O'Leary backs up from the computer and takes his earbuds out of his ears. “Yo.”

“Do. You. Want lunch.”

O’Leary shrugs. “I could eat. Y’all want anything?”

“My stomach’s kind of messed up from getting punched,” Ian snaps.

Mickey’s voice is rough. “You punched him? What the fuck for?”

“He just startled me. It was a reflex.”

“Blinking is a reflex. You don’t just punch someone in the stomach just because they surprise you.” Mickey stands up.

“Hey hey hey,” Rex says, putting his hand out toward Mickey.

“It’s fine,” Ian says quickly. “Really.”

Mickey doesn’t back down. “Fucking try it,” he snaps.

“It’s okay,” Ian says. “Come here. Just sit down. Here.”

Mickey sits. The guys take their exit, looking quickly over their shoulders on the way out.

Ian pulls out his notebook again and flips to an empty page. He pushes it toward Mickey. “Write it down,” he says.

“Write what down?”

“What you’re feeling,” Ian says. “Always helps me.”

Mickey stares at the pen.

“I’m not a good speller,” he blurts out.

Ian shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is getting that negative energy out of your body.”

“I’m good at getting energy out of my body,” he says. “If someone’s gonna push me, I push back.”

“Not like that,” Ian says, leaning forward. “Like, just get your hand moving. Give your body something to do. Something focused.”

“Teachers don’t like my handwriting,” Mickey says.

“I’m not a teacher.”

“Well, what am I supposed to write?”

“Whatever you want.”

Mickey pauses, then shyly picks up the pen. He hunches over the notebook with his fingers gripping the end of the pen tightly. He presses it hesitantly against the paper. “You gonna watch me the whole time?”

Ian breathes out a laugh. “I’ll go find a book for you,” he says.

“Don’t have to do that,” Mickey says quickly. “I got another Guns and Ammo.”

“It’s no problem,” Ian says, pushing back his chair.

Ian can hear the large radiator along the windows clanking. He sees the abandoned shelving cart and the magazine rack. National Geographics, just like Mickey said. He pauses in front of them, flips through the covers before moving on.

“Have you ever read any Hemingway? You might like him.”

There’s no answer.

He walks his fingers down the spines until he finds what he’s looking for. “I’m reading The Sun Also Rises right now. There’s bullfighting in it. We could talk about it.”

The only sound is the radiator.

“Hello?” Ian walks through the stacks until he gets to the table.

Mickey is gone. The notebook is there, and the pen, and when Ian gets closer, he can read the slanted words, ink dark from pressing so hard.

I cant read

“Shit,” he whispers under his breath. He grabs his coat off the chair and runs out of the library. Mickey can’t have gone far. He bursts through the double doors and down the hall, skidding out the front door.

He runs around the corner and down the street. He’s about to go try the other direction when he sees him nearing the train.

“Mickey!”

If he hears him, he doesn’t answer. Ian picks up the pace. He has to get to him before he gets to the steps.

“Mickey stop!”

“Go away,” Mickey snaps, not turning around.

Only a few more feet, then inches, and then he’s grabbing Mickey’s elbow and turning him around. His eyes are so blue.

“Stop,” Ian pants. “We can talk about this.”

Mickey shifts his feet. “It’s fucking embarrassing,” he sputters. “I just thought you should know before you started in on all of the book shit.”

“But you can read,” he says. “You read what I wrote down.”

“Some of it,” Mickey says, and he bites his lip. “I didn’t read all of it. It just takes me so fucking long.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t read,” Ian says firmly. “Who told you that you can’t read? Some teacher? Because you can even if you’re slow.”

“I don’t want to be some fucking dummy!” He shouts at Ian, starts to get close. “You think I wanna be like this?”

Ian shakes his head. “You aren’t dumb. You aren’t.”

Mickey gets even closer, his voice even louder. “You think I like it when the words fucking move around?”

Ian opens and closes his mouth. “They move around?”

Mickey backs up suddenly, slapping his hands up and down at his sides. “You think I’m making it up.”

“No I don’t.”

“That bitch teacher in high school did! She said I wasn’t tryin.”

“The words move?”

“Not zooming around, but if I try and look at something sometimes it, like, shifts up or down. Or I can’t tell which way a letter’s going. Or it changes.”

It slowly dawns on him what Mickey means.

Mickey must see something in his face, because he takes a step back. “You think I’m lyin.”

“No I don’t. You have a learning disability. You’re dyslexic.”

Mickey looks horrified. “I what?”

“Your brain just works differently. It doesn’t mean you’re stupid. I read a book about this once. The character said the same thing you said - that the words move. Sometimes your brain can’t keep up with the way your eyes are taking in information. It’s not your fault that the teachers didn’t catch it. They should have done a better job. They should have realized it and helped you.”

Mickey backs up. “Who needs to teach a heap of southside trash to read, huh? Is that what they thought? Is that why?”

Ian shakes his head and walks closer. “I don’t know why,” he says. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey walks closer, too. “You lyin?”

“Of course not,” Ian says softly. “You’re just—it’s just that no one knew how to teach you. It was easier for those assholes to tell you that you were stupid. Because they didn’t do their job. Because they didn’t listen to you.”

“They were right, though. I’m not worth it. It’s too late.”

“That’s not true,” Ian says firmly, stepping even closer quickly. But Mickey puts a hand up to keep the distance.

“Don’t. Leave me alone.”

So Ian stands there, watching Mickey walk quickly toward the station steps. The sky is still so grey. He breathes deeply. Make a list, he thinks. Make a list. But he can’t think of any word but Mickey.

*

“Hey, do you know anything about dyslexia?”

When he woke up this morning he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. The class doesn’t meet on the weekends.

Lip cranes his neck to see if Tami is watching and then hits the vape pen. “Not really. What about it?”

Ian gives Fred a toy - a little bear with a ring of plastic keys. “There’s this guy I’m tutoring who I’m pretty sure is dyslexic. I don’t exactly know what to do besides search the internet.”

Tami moves around in the kitchen and Lip hides the vape pen in his pocket. “I know if people have dyslexia it can be hard, you know. It’s more than just having trouble with words. It can involve having trouble writing. Does he have trouble writing?”

“It’s pretty messy, but he hasn’t written much.”

“Probably avoids it,” Lip says, reaching over to give Fred back the toy he threw on the ground. “I bet he doesn’t text either.”

Ian shifts on the couch. Lip and Tami bought another dump that Lip is fixing up, so it’s all free furniture and light fixtures lying on the dining room table, away from a newly crawling Fred. “It’s weird to think someone doesn’t text. There’s autocorrect though.”

Lip shrugs. “Yeah, that probably helps.”

Ian puts his head back and rests. He closes his eyes. “I want to help him but I don’t know how.”

“You aren’t a fucking reading specialist.”

“I know,” Ian says softly. “But there’s gotta be something. I can’t just not do anything. I like him. He’s a nice guy.”

“So there is a guy.”

Ian thinks about denying it, but might as well be honest. “I mean, there might be a guy.”

Lip chuckles. “I knew it. Is he old?”

Ian laughs. “Fuck off. No. He’s not old. 20s.”

“Someone age appropriate for once, then.”

“I’ve been with plenty of guys my age. It’s not all old guys.”

“If you say so.” Lip digs in his pocket for the pen. He pulls it out and hands it over. “You gotta get rid of it. I’m not even supposed to be doing this.”

“You’re whipped,” Ian says.

Lip’s lip curls up. “So are you.”

*

He knows better than to show up during the lunch rush. He cleans the apartment instead. The laundry is starting to get a little out of control, but the shitty coin operated washing machine downstairs keeps jamming. Ian knows he’s lucky to have one in the building, but he can’t afford to lose quarters.

Hm. Now that he’s thinking of it, he should look at his money.

Ian remembers when he kept it all in a drawer at the house. He’d try not to touch it as he counted it, especially the 50s. He saved a good deal of it. He’s surprised how long it lasted once he got his own place.

He opens the laptop and pulls up his bank account. It took him a long time to realize that he could just open one. That he didn’t have to deal with all the cash in a drawer. There was something about having it on a card, on numbers on a screen, that made it less real, for better or for worse.

Christ it’s running low. Ian only has enough extra for three months rent, but he knows he’s lucky to have made it this far. With The Alibi and this new job, he will just barely squeak by. He chose the cheapest place he could find. He can’t afford to live on the south side anymore with all the gentrifiers. The west side is strange, but in the year he’s lived here, he’s gotten more used to it. Lip offered him a room in their house, still miraculously on the south side, but it was time to move on.

Still, Ian tries not to think about where he got it all. Dances, $20. Blow jobs, $50. Sex, $200. If he went home with someone his rate was negotiable. Considering he regularly got 100 dollar bills from old guys just for dancing in his gold shorts, it was a bargain.

And then there was the porn, of course. That was a month's rent right there. So it’s all been currency, like his doctor said. His body made him money.

He heard once that everyone’s body made money somehow. You traded your back for construction, your legs for retail, your wrists and knees for kitchen work. Your sanity for babysitting. But, for him, it was hard to compartmentalize using his naked body for money. Maybe if it had been his choice, but it never really felt like his choice. Not really. It felt like all he had left.

He shakes it off. Should he make a list? Nah, it’s not that bad. Should he do a counting breathing exercise? If he’s thinking about it, he probably doesn’t need it.

Bill meows loudly at his feet, so he picks her up. “What are we gonna do, huh?” Ian’s voice is high and babyish. He never thought he’d be that guy who talked to a pet this way. But here he is, anyway. “You want to sit in the scarf?”

When he first found her in the snow, she was so cold he opened his coat and slipped her inside. Immediately she curled up in a ball even though there was nothing to curl up on. He held her close on the train, ignoring the meows that came when the train jerked to a stop. Ever since then, she’s liked to try and crawl inside his shirt. Eventually he took an old scarf and tied in over his shoulder like Deb’s old baby sling. She’d sit inside, peering over the edge at whatever he was doing.

Ian ties her in and she peeks her head out. “Now you have to be good,” he says. “I have a lot of work to do.”

He closes the bank window and opens another. He types adult dyslexia exercises. The search results are mostly things you have to pay for - classes and books. He doesn’t have enough to order the expensive books, so he keeps scrolling until he sees something promising.

Many dyslexics struggle with syllable usage. Syllables break the word into pieces so it becomes easier to hear the sounds and read the parts of the word. The exercises below can be said out loud, as those with dyslexia find it easier to test or practice orally.”

Ian opens his backpack and pulls out the notebook. He copies the words neatly into it, making sure to leave spaces between each word.

It’s a start.

He looks at his watch. Almost 3 pm. It’s probably an okay time to go.

He lifts Bill out of the scarf and sets her on the floor. “Time’s up,” he says. “I got somewhere to be.”

*

For all he knows, he’s going to get punched. He sighs as he switches trains. Someday he wants a car. Someday. Maybe.

Patsy’s. They still have the bell above the door, and it rings when he comes in. The place smells the same, like greasy food and wafts of secondhand smoke from outside. It’s comforting. The tables are littered with used plates. The waitresses are scooping and stacking them up.

A blonde throws a rag on a table. “Where the hell’s the bus boy?”

“He got cut already,” another woman says. “It’s just the dishwasher. Probably out for a smoke.”

“I’m so sick of this. Why do they keep cutting the busser so early? They should just have one on all the time.” She sighs and looks at Ian. “Just sit anywhere, I don’t care.”

“Oh,” he says. “I was looking for the dishwasher. Mickey? Do you really think he’s outside?”

“Are you fucking serious?” The blonde wipes the table and throws the rag into a red bucket. “Out by the garbage, probably. Where he belongs.”

The other woman says “Come on, don’t be mean.”

Ian leaves them to it, letting the bell ring behind him. He finds his gloves in his pocket and pulls them on. The building is wide but not very long, and it’s easy to walk around, even in the snow. Sure enough, Mickey is standing there smoking, a bag of garbage at his feet. He shakes his head as soon as he sees him.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Ian looks down and steps over some ice. “I need to talk to you. Don’t like how we left things.”

“Got nothin’ to talk about. I’m not going back to that library. Why should I?”

“Because it looks good on your record,” Ian says. “And because I can help you.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Did you even graduate? Don’t think I didn’t see you checking out that GED book.”

Ian sets his jaw. “That has nothing to do with anything. I’m a good reader. I taught myself how to read when I was four.”

Mickey takes a long drag. “How’d you learn to do that?” His voice is low, and he kicks at the garbage.

“My sister used to read to me. My brother, too. I guess it started to sink in. It starts with memorizing words, and then you can start to break them up from there. Do you know what a syllable is?”

Mickey doesn’t answer.

“It’s like how when you say a word, it sounds like it’s in pieces. Like, Patsy’s Pies. Patsy is two syllables like “Pat sy. Pies is one. You say it faster. Like that.”

“How many syllables in fucking asshole,” Mickey spits.

“Four.”

“Wasn’t really asking.”

“Why not? They’re words just like anything.”

Mickey takes a long drag. “So that’s supposed to help me? Cause I don’t think that’s gonna work.”

“It’s a start,” Ian says softly. “And I’m gonna print some stuff off at the library. And they probably have books or something.” He snaps his fingers. “Wait. The GED book, like you said. They’ll have some exercises. We could both practice. When you’re done with reading I can look at the math part. I’m useless in math.”

Mickey looks down at his feet. “I’m good at math.”

“Yeah?”

“Always been able to do it in my head. Fast, even. If there’s something I don’t know, I can just look at it til I figure it out. Like the thing with the letters instead of numbers?”

“Algebra?”

“Yeah. That. I figured that out on my own.”

Ian takes a chance and reaches for the cigarette. Mickey passes it over right away. “Then maybe you can help me,” Ian says. “Maybe we can help each other.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Ian smiles and blows the smoke out. “Yeah?”

Mickey smiles and shuffles his feet. “Sure.”

“Good.”

Mickey looks up, and that same something passes between them. Ian gives one small nod.

“I gotta go,” Mickey says suddenly. He picks up the trash and tosses it in the dumpster before reaching for the door.

“See you Monday?”

Mickey doesn’t turn back. “I guess.”

Ian walks toward the train, finishing the rest of the cigarette. Algebra. He sucked at Algebra. How on earth did Mickey figure it out on his own? Why would anybody even want to?

He thinks about the way Mickey’s fingers relaxed when he drew. Maybe if he figured out how to help him hold the pen? He wonders what his hands feel like. Probably rough.

He lets his mind slide over the thought. They’d be rough on his skin if Mickey touched him, bare and open on his bed. He could slide them over Ian’s thighs, pelvis, chest, leaving goosebumps from the friction.

Ian catches himself holding his breath. Fuck. Then he smiles. It’s so nice to think about. It’s been so long. Three dates in two years is not a good track record. But it’s all he’s felt ready for. It’s nice to have a bit of a crush on someone and not be scared of it. Not immediately wonder what he would do when his clothes come off. Not have to explain. Not be afraid of all that happened and all it did to him. Just melt into someone again. Have someone on that side of his bed. Warm. Caring about him.

The train comes into view. Monday will come soon enough.

Chapter Text

“So I’m supposed to add these two together before I can find out what X is?” Ian squints and leans closer to the book.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He scoots his chair closer. “But first you gotta find for A.”

Ian rubs his eyes. “It’s like my eyes don’t work.”

Mickey chuckles under his breath. “Now you know how I feel.”

He thought it would be easier to start with math. Get Mickey’s confidence up. But now he’s not so sure. Ian’s exhausted, and they’ve barely begun. “Are you bored? Do you want to switch?”

“Nice try,” Mickey says.

Rex tosses a book on the floor. “This one sucks too! This guy used to be one of my favorite authors. I don’t know what happened.”

“Things change,” O’Leary says, bent over a stack of paper.

“You should try Sherlock Holmes,” Ian says, turning in his chair to face Rex. “It’s a classic for a reason.”

“Nah, I saw a tv show about that. I can’t get past the accents.”

“You don’t read in an accent, dumbass.” O’Leary doesn’t look up. “It’s just written down.”

“But there’s slang I don’t know. I wouldn’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Context clues, bitch. That’s what they told me in GED class. Did you get your GED?”

“Fuck you,” Rex says. “I graduated high school. Don’t you have a personality test to take? The city needs to know if you have a personality before they can hire you?”

O’Leary shakes his head. “Leave me alone.”

“You started it.”

Ian rolls his eyes and turns back around, settles closer to Mickey.

“Here.” Mickey pushes the book closer. “Solve for A and then I’ll impress you with my knowledge of the alphabet. I know that much at least.”

*

Ian thought he was joking, but Mickey did say the alphabet. He wrote the alphabet. Capitals. Lowercase. He wrote a short word for every letter. They weren’t all spelled correctly, but it didn’t matter. When his hand got tired, he looked at a magazine. Ian managed to get through two pages in the GED book with Mickey’s help. For the first day, Ian deems it a success.

They walk toward the train together. They just missed one. It rattles overhead.

“My head hurts,” Ian says. “I haven’t concentrated that hard in a while.”

“Same here,” Mickey says. He jams his hands in his pockets. “Jesus it’s cold.”

Mickey still doesn’t have gloves. Now Ian knows why his hands are so chapped. Between the winter and the dishwashing, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Ian looks down at his gloves. He stops walking.

“Hey,” he says softly, and Mickey stops. “I want to give you these.” He slides them off. “You need them more than I do.”

Mickey’s eyes are soft. “You serious?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. Before he knows it, he’s reaching for Mickey’s right hand, pulling it from his pocket. “Here.”

Their hands linger. “They’re warm,” Mickey says quietly, slipping them on. He stares at his hands. “You sure about this?”

Ian shrugs. “Sure I’m sure. Just gloves.”

“More than that,” Mickey says quietly. “Thanks, man.”

The cold scratches into his lungs. The train is coming soon. Ian and Mickey hurry up the steps to the platform, but they don’t speak. Still, there is a weight between them, something new.

Ian wants to touch his hand again.

But here’s the train. It’s already full, and Ian only has two stops before he needs to switch. He presses in first, and after a quick glance, grabs onto a pole beside the seats. He finds himself holding his breath, wanting Mickey’s hand there, wanting Mickey. But Mickey presses past with a quick “See ya.”

“See ya,” Ian says back, but the doors are closing. He doesn’t think Mickey hears him.

*

Bill is more obsessed with food than anyone he’s met, and considering they sometimes went without it growing up, that’s saying something.

Ian frowns as she circles his feet. “Do I not feed you enough?” He really doesn’t know. She hasn’t been to the vet yet. He only knows she’s a girl from the internet and her lack of balls. He named her on the train, without much of a look. By the time he let her inside his apartment, it had already stuck.

Ian dumps food in her dish and she yelps, then purrs as she sits down to eat. He grabs a beer from the fridge. He keeps them there, but doesn’t drink much. The meds can make him loopy after a couple anyway. But today is a good day for it. He pops the cap and stares out the kitchen window as he drinks. The window faces a brick wall, but at least there is still a little light left in the day.

He sighs. Four more days. Four days and it’s over already. Four days and Mickey is gone. Rex and O’Leary too. O’Leary can fuck off, but Rex is funny and likes books as much as Ian does. The only thing he’s seen O’Leary do is watch porn, fill out this personality test, and once read a comic book.

A comic book.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before. Mickey said he doesn’t like reading dialogue because he can’t remember who is talking. But comics have thought bubbles, dialogue bubbles, blocks of text explaining what’s happening.

Perfect. That could work. There’s a used bookstore a few blocks away. They have to have something. Maybe he could look for a book that’s aimed at teaching kids to read. Maybe. They have to have something that isn’t babyish, right?

He sets down the beer and gets his coat. Worth a shot.

*

“There’s literally a toddler on the front,” Mickey says, somewhere between a complaint and a laugh. “What, they didn’t have any dumb people books so you had to go to the kids section, huh?”

“I’ve already told you,” Ian says. He opens to the first page. “You aren’t dumb. Don’t say that. Come on. Just look, okay? This is all phonics based. I know you can do it.” He flips quickly through the pages. “See? There’s hardly any pictures even. The lady working at the bookstore said this worked with her daughter because there weren’t any distracting pictures.”

“What if I want some pictures? Come on. Just give me the comic book instead.”

Ian groans. “Mickey, seriously.”

“I am being serious!”

“Okay, look,” Ian says. “They have words set up on this line, see? And you slide your finger along the line to put the pieces of the word together. The print is big so it’s easier to focus on. They even have a section where they go over the Bs and Ds and Ps and Qs. You said those were tricky sometimes. I also looked up this program called Orton Gilligham. They have special teachers for it, but you can buy workbooks online for not much money.” He pauses. “And okay, those look more like kids’ books, but they could really help.”

Mickey runs his fingers over the page, not looking up. His knuckles are dry and tattooed, the black ink sternly threatening. Mickey turns the pages and puts his finger on a line.

“So like this?” Mickey says quietly. He looks over his shoulder, but Rex is quietly reading, O’Leary still bent over paper. He leans forward and slides his finger along the line. “Th-ink.”

Ian nods. “Yes, exactly. Just start with the first sound and move to the next on the line.”

Mickey pauses at the next line.

“Take your time,” Ian says gently. “We have time.”

*

Mickey left first. Ian wanted to catch up, but the printer ran out of ink. O’Leary had a fit, Ian found some ink, and Rex complained about his P.O. the whole time.

When everything finally wraps up, it’s getting late. He’s about to follow the guys out when Mr. Walker comes in.

“I’d like to talk with you. Have a seat.”

Ian stops zipping his backpack. “Did I do something wrong?”

Mr. Walker shakes his head. “I heard from the program director,” he says, sitting down at the table. “They’re having a meeting in a few weeks to discuss the reading program. I’m not sure it will stick around.”

Ian shifts in his seat. It can’t be over yet, can it? Sure, there’s only one more week, but still. “What does that mean exactly?”

Mr. Walker shrugs. “Well, you wouldn’t get paid, for one. If they cut the funding, It would go back to being volunteer. I think we could still do it. We just wouldn’t have any money. Would that change things for you?”

Ian opens and closes his mouth. He takes a breath. “I mean,” he begins. “I like this, but I might need another job.”

“Understandable,” Mr. Walker says. “Well, for now we’ll sit tight. How’s it going with the guys? I know from website monitoring software that one of them was watching pornography. Which one?”

He’s not a snitch. He wasn’t raised that way. He looks Mr. Walker in the eye. “I’ve got it under control,” he says firmly. “He stopped. I’ll make sure he doesn’t start again.”

Mr. Walker’s gaze wavers, and he shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything else about it.

“The English teacher’s class is full,” he says. “She needs a few more guys to cycle out. Tomorrow I want you to tell the guys they’ll be stuck in a holding pattern. If they want to leave after the end of the week, they can. But if they want to stay on, that’s okay too. We should know soon if your program is cut all together.”

Ian nods. He knows it wouldn’t be long with these guys, but the thought of stopping is strange. He only just started.

What about Mickey?

“Do you,” Ian begins. “Is there a process for special ed or something? I think one of the guys is dyslexic.”

Mr. Walker lets out a heavy sigh. “That would be the English teacher’s job to coordinate and schedule an evaluation. Might have an idea or two. But if he needs that, he needs to go to her class. You won’t be able to help him. Not without a degree.”

Ian swallows. “I can’t just ignore him. He needs help.”

“And he can get help,” Mr. Walker says. “From someone qualified.”

Ian can feel his chin jut out. Tense.

“That’s all I have,” Mr. Walker says, standing up. “You can go. I just thought I’d let you know this might not work out after all. If you want to volunteer, great. Think about it before the meeting.”

Ian stands, tossing his bag over his shoulder. “Fine,” he says.

The hallway is dirty. Everything here is old and dirty, busted and ignored. Mr. Walker heads back to his office, and Ian doesn’t say anything more.

*

He struggles with the laundromat door, but eventually someone holds it. He’s lucky he doesn’t have to walk far. The garbage bag flops on the floor and he digs in his pocket for quarters.

“You don’t even need those,” a voice says. “You can use an app.” The man waves his phone around. He’s slightly older. 30s, maybe. Blonde. Hipster jeans and a casually expensive shirt. Ian doesn’t miss the way the man looks him up and down.

“Quarters work,” Ian grunts.

“Suit yourself,” the man says. “I just think it’s cool. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a laundromat. It’s nice to see they’ve evolved with technology. I have my own machines. My dryer’s heating element just burned out.”

“Hmm,” Ian says. He shoves his clothes in the washer and then pauses. “Shit.”

“Detergent, huh?” The man laughs. “I’ve got some pods you can use.” He passes the orange bag over. “You just toss one right in there.”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I’ve used them.” He takes one. He closes up the machine and starts it. Rude. He’s being rude. “Thanks,” he says quickly and passes the bag back.

“No problem.”

There’s a pause. Ian clears his throat. He can sense how close the guy is to him.

“I’m Taylor,” the man says.

Fuck, it’s hot in here. The steam covers the windows. There are too many people. Why are there so many people?

Ian doesn’t respond. He squats down to unzip his backpack. Headphones. He should have already put on his headphones.

“What’s your name?” Taylor takes a step closer. He’s wearing nice shoes.

Where the fuck are his headphones.

“Curtis,” Ian says. It’s a reflex, he realizes. His stomach flips.

The nice shoes take a closer step. He’s nearly on the strap of Ian’s backpack. Ian finds the white wires and pulls the headphones out of his bag. Tangled. Of course they are.

“I knew it,” Taylor says, voice low and flirty.

Oh no.

No.

Not this. Please. Not now. Not here.

Ian bunches up his empty garbage bag and shoves it into his backpack. He shakes out the headphones, fingers starting to fumble. He stands up and almost bumps into Taylor, who is nearly hunched over him.

“I remember you,” Taylor says. He leans closer, and Ian can’t help but meet his eyes. They are dark and bore into him. “I knew I remembered you.”

Ian sets his jaw, but his throat is dry. “I haven’t worked there in a long time,’ he says.

Taylor nods. “I know,” he says. He doesn’t look away. Ian doesn’t either. He can’t feel his feet. “But I remember you. I remember your hair.” He leans closer, so close Ian can feel his breath on his cheek. “I remember your fucking mouth.”

Ian pushes him back. He’s breathing hard. It’s so hot. It’s so hot in here. His stomach heaves. Out. He needs out.

He grabs his backpack. The door opens easier than he thought, and outside he can breathe. He can breathe. Breathe. Just breathe. He closes his eyes. Fruit. Apple. Banana. Cherry. Breathe. Pear. Plum. Peach.

How long is a wash cycle? Half hour? Great. He looks at his watch, then in the window of the laundromat. Taylor is looking at him, waves a little, and turns away.

Ian makes it to the end of the block. Grape. Grapefruit. He paces. It’s been a while since he’s been recognized. He shakes his head.

He stops pacing. Okay. Half an hour in the cold isn’t terrible. Maybe when he goes back to switch into the dryer, the guy will be gone. He’ll use one of the massive dryers - the ones that dry fast. Then he’ll shove it all back in his garbage bag and forget this ever happened. Just shove it down with everything else, submerged in the dark water where nothing ever gets out.

*

Ian pushes the bag in the booth next to him. Here he is, looking like he’s carrying garbage around the whole city, but he didn’t want to go home. Too shaken up, too scared of how he’d be alone again. Before he knew what he was doing, he was switching trains, and then he was walking down the L steps and headed for Patsy’s.

He takes a moment to collect himself before reaching for a menu. He doesn’t even know if he’s hungry, but when the waitress comes he orders a patty melt anyway.

He can’t see Mickey from where he’s sitting alongside the counter. He can see food in the window, the cooks moving back and forth, waitresses. He can see where Fiona used to stand next to the coffee.

He folds his hands in front of him. Taylor was gone when he got back, thank god. The dryer didn’t take long. Maybe in an ideal world, he’d fold it how he likes and settle it back in his bag. But he just stuffed it all in as fast as he could. Now it will probably smell like diner, but at least they are clean.

The waitress comes back with a coffee pot.

“Uh,” he says. “Is Mickey working?”

She frowns. “Who’s Mickey?”

“The dishwasher? Dark hair?”

“Oh,” she says. “Him. Yeah, I think he’s still here. Hang on.”

He doesn’t fiddle with anything. He doesn’t take out his phone. He stares straight ahead. The bathroom. A bus tub on a table. Ketchup bottles.

He sees Mickey walking out, and sits up a little straighter.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Mickey says. His eyes are bright. He gestures to the garbage bag. “Bringing me more garbage to take out?”

“Laundry,” he says. “I guess I got hungry after.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, you come all the way down here?”

Ian shifts in his seat. “I guess,” he says. “I don’t know. I just had this weird run-in with this guy at the laundromat and then—”

“What guy? What’d he do?” Mickey’s voice gets deeper.

“He,” Ian says, and he takes a deep breath. “He recognized me. From when I worked at The Fairy Tail. And it was weird. So somehow I decided this was the next place on my list.”

Mickey’s voice is small. “So you came to see me?”

Ian doesn’t look away. “I think I did,” he says. His voice is clear. He means it.

Mickey swipes his tongue on the inside of his cheek. He taps his fingers on the table.

“So,” Ian says. “Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

Mickey bites his lip, then releases. “I started reading that comic book,” he says. “Didn’t get very far. But I like it.”

“I’m glad,” Ian says. “Is the dialogue easier to follow?”

Mickey nods. “It was a good idea.” Tap tap tap on the table.

“Let me see your hands,” Ian says, leaning forward, feeling brave. “I want to see your knuckles.”

“They’re stupid,” Mickey blurts, but he holds them out anyway. “Got 'em when I was 14. Dad did it at the kitchen table. Tried not to act like it hurt, but it did.”

“Not as tough as you look?” Ian asks, raising an eyebrow.

Mickey leaves his fingers splayed out for him. Ian fights the urge to touch the lines.

“I’m still tough,” Mickey says. He pauses. “But I’m not that tough. Not with everything.”

Ian smiles. It comes so easily with Mickey. “When do you get off work? Can you sit?”

Mickey hesitates. “I think I can when your food comes out. I got time for a break. I just gotta catch up. I’ll be back.” He taps the table again before he goes.

Ian takes out his book, but he can’t concentrate. He’s about to pull his phone out when the patty melt arrives.

He’s just about to start on the second side when Mickey slides in opposite him.

“Almost over,” Mickey says right away, like he’s been waiting years to say it. “The class.”

Ian nods and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah,” he says. “Except maybe not.”

“Whaddya mean?”

Ian balls the napkin up on the table. “Mr. Walker says the other teacher doesn’t have room for you guys yet, so you can keep tutoring for a while longer or you can finish for real on Friday.”

“So what’s that mean? I gotta stay? I gotta keep doing it?”

Ian shrugs. “Only if you want to.” He doesn’t pick up the rest of the sandwich. He just looks at Mickey.

Mickey's eyes are steady. “Should I? Stay?”

“Do you want to?”

Mickey bites his lip again. “Are...are you going to keep doing it?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. ‘I mean, I’d like to.” He swallows. “And I’d like it if you were there.”

Mickey’s eyes are still. “I’d like that, too.”

“Good,” Ian says softly. He glances down at the sandwich. “Would you like the rest of this? You must be hungry.”

Mickey hesitates. “I am, man. Thanks.”

Ian nods. “I gotta get going anyway. It’s getting late. Gotta, you know, take meds and sleep like an old man. Nights off from The Alibi I like to try and catch up.” He reaches for his laundry. “I’m glad I got to see you. I didn’t plan on it, I just kind of…”

“Anytime,” Mickey says, mouth full. “I’m gonna be stuck here for the rest of my life.”

“No you’re not,” Ian says.

“Feels like it.”

“You’re not.” Ian shakes his head. “This is only a chapter in your life. No. Wait. A chapter is too long. This is a paragraph.”

“A paragraph?”

“Yeah.”

“The fuck’s a paragraph?”

Ian stands up and hefts up his laundry, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”

*
His garbage bag is battered and his legs are tired. He tosses the bag in the corner and flops on the bed.

What is he going to do for money? If the program gets cancelled for real, what is he going to do? He’s thought of trying to get a job at one of the bars near his new place. Kev and V did him a favor by hiring him when they didn’t really need to. But going to the south side when there are so many places nearby seems like it’s not making sense anymore. And he can’t go back home. There isn't even a home to go back to. And anyway, when he left, it was for good. He can't move in with Carl and Debbie and Liam. He doesn't want to do that. Lip’s moved on. Fiona is long gone.

It’s too soon to worry. Mr. Walker said they are meeting in a few weeks. Mickey sounds like he’ll stick around. The other guys, who knows. If Ian can just make it until spring, when everything is better, when the earth comes alive, maybe he’ll have figured his life out.

He rolls onto his stomach, then pushes up to get his meds. Four bottles, tap tap tap tap into his palm, a swig of water from under the faucet. He starts to peel off his clothes and heads for the bathroom sink. His toothbrush is green and it does the job, the washcloth is white and feels good on his face. He clears his throat and looks at himself in the mirror. Sometimes it’s hard to look at himself. A reckoning for past selves, a portrait of forgetting. But he looks straight ahead. He tries, for a minute, to think about what Mickey sees when he looks at him. He already knows two truths about him, two deep truths he blurted out because he didn’t have anything to lose. But now he’s not so sure. Now it feels like there could be something to lose, after all.

But Mickey brightened to see him tonight, and Mickey is wearing his gloves, and when Ian settles into his bed and shuts off the light, it’s Mickey he thinks of. It’s Mickey he thinks of when he touches himself, just once, under the covers. It’s Mickey in the morning, and it can’t come soon enough.

*

The days moved along like words on a line. But on Friday, O’Leary is nowhere to be found.

“He’s not coming back,” Rex says finally. “He’d have been here hours ago. It's the end of the damn day. Must have known he was gonna skip out yesterday. He took his personality test and everything.”

“Good riddance,” Mickey mutters, not looking up from his comic book. “That asshole’s shifty.”

“Still, today was the last fucking day,” Ian says. “He couldn’t show up for the last day? That’s literally all he had to do. I never signed that form for the P.O. Is he even going to get credit for this?”

Rex shrugs. “Probably not. But I bet he’ll be back in the joint in no time. Think he’s using again anyway. Not gonna test clean.” He swings the empty library cart around the table. “Done shelving these. You got my form?”

“On the desk,” Ian says, pointing.

“Alright then,” Rex says. He pulls a paperback from his back pocket. Sherlock Holmes. He shakes it at Ian with a smile. “See you Monday.”

Mickey salutes without looking up from his comic.

It’s quiet. The lights are shut off in the hallway already. Mickey turns a page. Ian stands in the middle of the room. He can hear himself breathing.

“You gonna stand there all night?” Mickey’s lip curls, but he doesn’t look up.

Ian grins. “Are you gonna read all night?”

Mickey licks the side of his mouth. “Heh. Maybe.”

Ian crosses over and leans on the table. “You like that comic,” he says, teasing. “I picked a good one.”

Mickey nods and finally looks up. “You did,” he says. “You picked a good one. Took me all fucking week to read it, but I’m gonna be done in a minute.”

“We’ll have to buy another one,” Ian says. “Or even here, I bet they have some sort of anthology or something. I could look over—”

“Ian.”

Mickey’s voice is stern. He drops his eyes and stares at the table. His jaw shifts. “You don’t have to do this.”

Ian sits down slowly. “Don’t have to do what?”

Mickey gestures between them. “Don’t have to do this. Be so nice to me about it.”

“About what? Reading?”

Mickey shrugs. “I know I’m never gonna get my GED or any shit like that. It’s too hard. I can’t do it. I’m okay with that. But I don’t even know why I’m doin’ this. And I don’t know why you’re helpin’ me.”

“Because,” Ian says quietly. “Just because.”

Mickey doesn’t look up from the table. “I remember back in second grade I said I didn’t know how to read this stupid book about a frog and the teacher just kicked me out of the class. Said I was being disruptive. I was always told I was bein’ disruptive.”

Ian sits down and folds his hands. “My dad always told me I was too dramatic,” he says. “Got my feelings hurt too easily. Tried to hide it, but my mom said I was one of the ‘heart on his sleeve’ people. You put yourself out there, things can happen. I think I’m still trying to learn that lesson.”

“My dad always told me I was a piece of shit that wouldn’t amount to nothin’. Guess he’s right. Even dead, he’s right.”

“Hey,” Ian says, and his hand darts out before he can take it back. His breath stops.

Mickey’s hand is rough in his. Mickey looks down at Ian’s hand, then blinks up at him. His lips are parted, his face is open and beautiful.

“You’re something,” Ian says. His fingers slide into Mickey’s slowly, thumb on the back of his fingers, tracing the lines in his mind. “You’re—” But he closes his mouth.

Mickey swallows. Ian can see it, just a short thud in his throat. He moves his head, just shy of a nod. “You’re something, too.”

The radiator clangs and clangs. The cart sits empty. Mickey’s other hand comes up and closes over Ian’s. The touch is so tender Ian can hardly stay still.

“You have freckles on your hands,” Mickey says quietly.

“Everywhere,” Ian smiles. “You should see me in the summer.”

Mickey smiles back. “Summer is a long way away. Don’t know if I can wait that long.”

Ian shakes his head. “Not that long,” he says. He stretches out his legs, taps Mickey’s feet once, twice. “We won’t have to wait that long.”

Chapter Text

It’s only Wednesday, but it’s already been a busy week. Mickey is making steady progress on his reading book and started a new comic. Ian is trying to avoid starting geometry. Rex admits that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle knew how to write a good mystery after all.

Ian is deep into an algebra problem when Mickey slams the paper down on the table.

Ian jumps. “Jesus.”

“Sorry,” Mickey says. “You were concentrating too hard. You didn’t even hear me call you.”

Ian picks up the paper and reads. “GED prep course? What is this?”

“It’s your fuckin’ future,” Mickey says, sliding back into his seat. “You’re gonna take that test.”

Ian shakes his head. ‘I’m not ready.”

Mickey pulls the paper out of his hands and shakes it. “This class isn’t until April. And the test itself isn’t until June. You can get ready in time. We just gotta keep doin’ how we’re doin.”

“There’s no way,” Ian says. “I can barely do one problem without you having to jump in and save me.”

Mickey puts the paper down and picks up his reading book. “I’m reading a book with a toddler on the front. I’m holding my end up. Come on. Don’t be a pussy.”

Ian breathes out. “Fine. I will if you will.”

Mickey clicks his tongue. “No can do. Already told you I won’t take it. I’d never pass. You could, though.”

Ian looks at the paper again. “What if,” he begins. He opens and closes his mouth. Thinks. “What if you get evaluated by the other teacher for dyslexia? And start her class? Maybe then you could learn about what accomodations you could get for taking the GED.”

Mickey pauses. He bites his lip. “Maybe.”

Ian leans back in his chair. “Maybe is a start.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Don’t get cute.”

“Aww.” Ian clucks his tongue. “Now I’m cute?”

He doesn’t miss the way Mickey nudges him with his foot under the table.

Ian’s about to say something else when Rex rounds the corner with a huge atlas. He throws it open on the table.

Ian frowns and pushes it over. “Why do you throw books around so much?”

Rex ignores him. “Know what I always liked as a kid? Maps. I used to have a big one on my wall that my dad found in a dumpster by an old school. It was outdated. Still had the USSR. But I didn’t give a shit. The whole thing was like lookin’ at the fuckin’ moon. I’d never been outside Chicago. I could barely see Chicago on the map.”

Ian runs his fingers over the page, gliding over the midwest. “What about now? Have you been outside Chicago?”

Rex nods. “Went to New York once. The Brooklyn Bridge is fucking glorious.” He points to New York City on the map. “So much going on and Manhattan’s just a little island.”

Mickey snorts. “Probably just robbed some old lady and saw the Statue of Liberty.”

“Hey hey.” Rex waves his hands at Mickey. “Enough of that. I was on my best behavior. It was my girlfriend’s cousin’s wedding.”

“See, now I know this is made up,” Mickey says. “It involves you having a girlfriend.”

Rex scoffs. “Laugh all you want,” he says. “At least I got out of this fucking city for once in my life.” He gathers up the atlas and heads for his chair.

Mickey reaches for the paper and a pen. He turns the sign over and starts to sketch. Ian is about to turn back to his book when Mickey pauses.

“Hey,” Mickey says without looking up. “You maybe wanna get a beer with me tonight?”

Ian’s mouth is open. He can feel it. Mickey doesn’t look at him. Mickey just moves his pen across the paper in long lines. The ocean again.

“I’d love to,” Ian says.

Mickey pauses just enough to look up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I know a place.”

*

It’s a dive, but it’s close.

“Is this okay?” Ian sets two beers on the table.

“Yeah, man. S’great.” Mickey digs in his pocket for money, but Ian waves him off.

“Thanks.”

They drink in silence. Ian suddenly feels awkward.

Mickey clears his throat. “So you think O’Leary passed that personality test?”

“Oh, no way,” Ian says. He laughs. “But to be honest, I probably wouldn’t pass it either.”

Mickey’s beer is already half gone. “Why not?”

Ian plays with the bar napkin. “The...the mental illness thing.”

“Oh,” Mickey says. “Yeah. That.”

“Yeah.” Ian takes a long drink of his beer. He pretends to study the poster on the wall. He shouldn’t struggle this much to talk. They talked all day. But taking it out of the library is different.

“I looked it up,” Mickey says finally.

“Dyslexia?”

“No. The other thing. The, you know, the bi-bipolar thing.”

Ian breathes out slowly. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He scratches at his eyebrow with his thumb. “I mean, I didn’t read much. I did what I could. I mostly watched some YouTube videos. One said manic-depression.”

Ian nods. “That’s what they used to call it. They changed it to bipolar, but the term manic depression seems more accurate to me. Especially the mixed states. It’s like having the high with the low at the same time. They make me angry and dark. I haven’t had them since my meds finally got straight, but they scare me. It’s not all fun highs. Not at all.”

Mickey’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You said you were manic or whatever at the club?”

Ian nods. “And the lack of sleep schedule and all the lights make it so much worse. And the drugs. But without the drugs, I couldn’t sleep. And when you’re manic, people love you. Especially if you have hypersexuality like I did. It’s a perfect environment to be sick in. Another reason to hate that fucking place.”

Mickey shifts in his seat. “Why’d you decide you wanted to do that, anyway? The dancing?”

Ian pauses. “I guess I thought if I was being stared at for my body already, why not be honest about it and get paid? I mean, plenty of guys worked there and were fine. Liked it even. At the time, I thought it was easy. But things changed. The job changed. I changed. And if I wasn’t manic, who knows.”

Mickey plays with his empty glass.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Mickey says suddenly. “That you got it. The bipolar or whatever.”

Ian sighs. “I feel like I should have been ready for it,” he says quietly. “My mom’s bipolar. Life was complicated with her. Wasn’t around much. When she was around, something would inevitably happen. She’d climb on the roof, have a picnic in the snow. She was sometimes fun. But then she’d slash her wrists at Thanksgiving and not get out of bed. I just never thought that it would happen to me. I hated her. I mean I loved her, but I hated when she’d do that. My siblings hated her all the time. They didn’t try to understand why I still loved her. My sister Fiona says I look like her. I guess we’re more alike than anyone could have known.”

“How’d you figure out you have it?”

Ian laughs weakly. “Simple. I got arrested for prostitution, and then they found out I had stolen my boss’s car. Broke into his house, stole a bunch of shit. He was getting rich off us at The Fairy Tail. He has a nice place.”

Mickey leans forward, eyebrows raised. “You what?”

Ian folds his hands. “Yep.”

Mickey glances at Ian’s hands, then looks up. “Where’d you go?”

“I started to drive to Mexico,” Ian says. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. But I didn’t even have my wallet on me. No money. No license, nothing. Just a bunch of expensive stuff in the back that I couldn’t pawn without an ID. So I just drove as far as I could. Only got as far as Indiana. Eventually I was almost out of gas, so I had to stop and do what I needed to do to get cash.”

Mickey’s eyes widen. Just slightly. Just enough.

Ian looks down at the table. Half-hearted shrug. “Yeah.” Ian is scared to look up. He doesn’t want to see the look on Mickey’s face. He saw that look on Lip’s face when he came to pick him up in Terre Haute.

Ian takes a deep breath. “So I did it. We did it. But then the guy got pulled over by the cops as soon as he drove away. Then the cops came back to get me. I was still in front of the bar waiting to see if I could get another taker. But something was off. When I had been driving, I kept kind of,” he pauses, trying to think about how to explain. “I kept feeling kind of like I wasn’t real. Like my skin wasn’t real. Like my hands weren’t really holding the steering wheel. And then with that guy, it was like I left my body. I just went through the motions. My doctor said it’s called depersonalization. It’s a kind of dissociation. And I was kind of paranoid. I heard a song on the radio and I thought it was a kind of code. Like, a sign of what was going to happen, or what I should do. That had never happened before.”

Mickey looks confused, but nods.

“When the cops came closer, I started to freak out. I started screaming that I wasn’t a robot. I was convinced they were there to take me apart to see if I was real or a machine. I had to stop them. They tried to talk to me, but I ran at them. They slammed me up against a building and cuffed me.”

It’s exhausting to think about all of it. The bartender comes over with two more.

“So I got arrested,” Ian says. He takes a drink. “And they found out about the car and all the stuff in the backseat. But my boss refused to press charges. I knew too much about what was really going on at The Fairy Tail. And then they agreed to drop prostitution charges if I went to a psych ward. It was pretty obvious I didn’t even know where I was at that point. Like, I didn’t even believe it was a police station. I was convinced it was a front for a laboratory full of robot parts. They brought me to the psych ward, drugged me hard, and three days later I had a bag full of antipsychotics, antidepressants and stabilizers. It wasn’t long before I needed more drugs, different drugs. Then it was just tweaking the meds, looking for the right cocktail. I had to go back to the hospital twice, but that’s a longer story. So here I am. But I’m better.”

MIckey gives a small smile. “No robots?”

“No robots,” he says. “Just me.”

“Good,” Mickey says quietly.

Ian nods quickly, swallows hard. “Yeah.” He’s about to say something else, but then he feels Mickey’s fingers touch his.

“You've been through a lot,” Mickey says, fingers wandering toward Ian’s palm. Ian realizes he’s been holding tight to the crumpled napkin. Mickey slowly pries the napkin from his hand and tosses it aside. Mickey’s hand slides so slowly into his that he can barely breathe.

“Y-yeah.” he says quietly.

“You been with anyone since then?”

There it is. The question Ian’s been avoiding. “At first I was. But things changed after my last hospital stint. It’s like something turned over and I just couldn’t anymore. Went on a few dates the last couple years, but I wouldn’t have sex. Is that weird? I know I should be over it by now. It’s just that I’m done fucking strangers, and I haven’t—”

“It’s not weird,” Mickey says, his hand tightening just a little. He swallows. “You said once that you were broken. You might have gotten bashed around, but you’re not broken.”

God it feels good to be touched. It shouldn’t be, not now. Not when he’s so messy. His eyes begin to burn.

Suddenly he shakes off Mickey’s hand and stands up. “Gotta go to the bathroom,” he blurts out.

“Wait.”

But Ian’s walking away, pushing the bathroom door open. He rests his hands on the filthy sink, slowly raises his head. The mirror is warped, but he can still see his reflection. His eyes are red. He’s not fooling anyone. This is where he is in life. Pouring out his heart in a bar where his feet stick to the floor.

But Mickey. Mickey is different. This feels different.

Just breathe.

Breathe.

The door opens, and Mickey is standing there.

Mickey takes a step toward him. His voice is quiet. “Eh. You okay?”

Ian nods. Sighs heavily. “Talking about it can hit me hard. It just—I guess it just brought up a feeling I wasn’t ready for.”

Mickey looks deeply into his eyes. Pointedly. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for.”

Ian looks at Mickey’s lips. They look so soft. The perfect shape.

Ian’s lips part. He nods. “I know,” he says. “I’ll be careful.”

“Careful?”

Ian nods. He reaches down and takes Mickey’s hand.

The back of Mickey’s hand is chapped and rough, his knuckles tattooed and dry, and when Ian’s lips touch there, he can feel it all. Grounding. Real. So, so human.

“Ian,” Mickey breathes. When Ian raises his head, he can see that look. The look that says kiss me, hold me, breathe into my mouth and keep me close. “What are you doing?”

Ian doesn’t drop his hand. “I think about you all the time.”

Mickey nods, eyes wide. “I think about you, too.”

Ian takes Mickey’s hand and brings it to his cheek. He nuzzles into it until Mickey’s hand touches him a little harder, bringing Ian firmly into his body. It has been so long since he’s been touched like this.

Ian reaches his hand out, tentatively sliding to the middle of Mickey’s back. He presses his fingers in just slightly. There is a hitch in Mickey’s breath.

The door swings open, and they quickly break apart. The drunk man looks back and forth at them. “Hello boys.”

“Um. Hello,” Ian says, trying to calm his shallow breathing.

They exit the bathroom, going back to their booth. When their eyes meet again, the fire is quieted, but not gone completely.

Ian sighs. “What are we gonna do, Mickey?”

Mickey shrugs with a smile. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

Ian smiles weakly and rubs the back of his head. “Can I get your number at least?”

Mickey laughs. “Yeah, you can get my number.”

*

“I can’t believe you have index cards,” Rex says. “Are you about to give a presentation to the class?”

“Shut up, asshole.” Mickey leans forward in his chair. “Let him work.”

Ian shuffles the cards. He thought he might find the game too babyish, but Mickey seems to be eager for a challenge.

“Remember,” Ian says. “Don’t try to go really fast or anything. Take your time. I’ll show it to you and say it, and you say how many syllables.”

He raises the first card. “Ian Gallagher.”

“You’re cocky,” Mickey says.

“Answer the question.”

Mickey whispers to himself. “Five.”

“Good. Next one.” He flips to the next card. “Mickey Milkovich.”

“Are you seriously just using people’s names? What, you have Rex in there, too?”

Ian pauses.

“He does!” Rex laughs.

“Let me answer,” Mickey says. “Five.”

“Here’s a sentence.” He flips the card around. “Rex is looking at his book.”

“Um. Seven,” Mickey says. “ And there’s the -ing at the end. I know that’s i n g. Like running. That’s one thing I remember okay. That and -ly. Like carefully. Those are the ones I remember using to break those kinds of words up.”

“Suffixes. Good,” Ian says. “We can work with that. Now you do one. Write something down. Anything.” He passes over a few blank cards.

Mickey pauses. He chews his lip. “I don’t want to.”

“It’s okay, it can be whatever you want.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I’m serious, I really don’t want to.”

Ian pauses, but presses on. “What if you can see what to write? You could get a magazine or book and copy down some sentences?”

Mickey considers it. He sighs, groans. “I guess. I guess I could do it that way.” He stands up and disappears into the stacks.

Ian pages through the GED guide while he waits. So much math. He tries not to feel defeated.

Suddenly, Rex turns the chair next to Ian around and sits down. “Say,” he whispers. “What’s going on with you two? Anything? Seems like something changed. You can tell me.”

“Why would I?”

“Come on, man. The only excitement in my life is my mom making me kielbasa and pierogies three times a week.”

Ian tilts his head. “Three times a week? That seems like two times too many.”

“Says you. You’ve never had my mom’s cooking.”

Ian cranes his neck to look for Mickey. He can’t believe he’s doing this. “We went out for a drink last night after class.”

“And?”

Mickey’s hand in his. “And nothing. Just a beer.”

“That’s it?”

“Two beers,” Ian says. “That’s all.”

“Pssh,” Rex says, pushing the chair back.

“Nothing happened.”

Ian is about to go back to his book when Rex bends to his ear. “Not yet.”

*

If he’s too late, she’ll probably make him call back another day. He’s not going to call on the train. There’s no way. But by the time he gets off, it’s past time.

He pulls out his phone and quickly scrolls for the number. He hears a voice call out “on your left!”

He steps over quickly to the right. He barely looks up. He’s gotten used to them. The way people run on the west side. He never thought running would be something that would change from neighborhood to neighborhood. People here dress up. They have special shoes. They have cordless earbuds and they announce their directions. When he runs, he runs in a straight line, old shoes pounding the pavement. Running in winter. Not everyone can do that.

The phone rings. He’s almost to his apartment. Maybe he’ll make it there after all. Maybe he’ll—

“Hi Ian.” Her voice is bright and cheerful.

“Hey Doc,” he says. “I’m late. Sorry. Coming from the train.”

“That’s all right,” she says. “You’re my last appointment of the day. Where are you coming from?”

“I started doing some tutoring.”

“No kidding?”

He crosses the street quickly, raising a hand in thanks to the car coming toward him. The guy flips him off anyway. People cross at the corners here. People are strange. “No kidding,” he says. “At Malcolm X.”

“That’s a bit of a hike,” she says. “Is it stressful for you?”

He shakes his head, then remembers she can’t see him. “Nah,” he says. “Gives me time to think.” His building comes into view and he digs out his keys. “Not too much, though. I quit having attacks on the train last year, remember?”

“I do,” she says. “That was a hard summer for you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, slipping his key into the lock. He doesn’t like to think about that. It was a brutal few weeks out of nowhere. A lifetime of taking the train and suddenly when the doors closed he could barely breathe.

“How are you balancing the workload with the bar? Are you getting too many hours? Is it affecting your sleep?”

“It’s fine,” he says, climbing the steps and finding his apartment door. “I’m not getting many hours at The Alibi right now. I’ve thought about switching to someplace around here, but I’m not sure I could handle it.”

“The Alibi is very safe and familiar for you,” she says. “But I think you’re ready if you need a change.”

Bill starts meowing the moment he steps inside, circling his cold feet and trying to herd him toward her dish.

She laughs. “Who’s that?”

“I got a cat,” he says. “Found her at Holman. She’s loud and sort of strange looking, but it feels nice to have someone else here. Even if it’s just a cat.”

“Hey,” she says. “I’ve got three. I’m pro-cat.”

He pauses.

She clears her throat. “Hello?”

He thinks about it. Should he tell her? He should. “I like someone,” he says. “A guy from the class. We almost kissed. We got interrupted. But I wanted to. Kiss him, I mean.”

“Wow,” she says. “It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?”

He nods. He forgot again. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “A long time.”

“How do you feel about it?”

He dumps food in Bill’s dish. She yelps, as usual. “I,” he says. ‘We had been talking about all that happened. You know.”

“Your mania?”

“Yeah.” He flops on his bed. “And the, you know. The stuff I did.”

“The sex work?” She’s always respectful and careful when she says it. As if saying it that way makes the hard parts lighter to hold.

“Mm,” he grunts. “I told him more than I thought I would. It just came out.”

“How did he handle it?” He imagines her playing with her pen. She likes to spin it around. It’s the sort of habit he imagines she tries to hide with other people. But they’ve always gotten along.

“Fine,” he sighs. “He said he looked up bipolar.”

“He must care about you,” she says.

“That’s the thing. I haven’t even known him that long. A few weeks. But something feels different. He feels different. I’m not...nervous. He doesn’t make me nervous. It’s a new feeling.”

She gives an affirmative hum.

“He’s interesting,” he says. “And handsome.” He feels old fashioned saying it, but it feels right. “And I like getting to know him.”

“I think that’s wonderful, Ian,” she says. “I really do.”

“Thanks,” he says softly. Bill jumps up, licking her lips. She circles the bed before tentatively stepping up on his chest.

“Meds okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been sleeping well so I haven’t needed the trazadone. Mind isn’t racing like it was over Christmas. The rest is fine.”

“Good. That’s great to hear. I’ll get you refills. Do you want to go two months again?”

He pauses. “Maybe one,” he says. “All this new stuff. I had to do the notebook one day.”

“That’s a good idea then,” she says patiently. “Let’s do a month. How’s March 28 at 4:30? Maybe you should come into the office. Been a couple of months since I’ve seen you in person.”

“Sure,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“And don’t be afraid to call me, okay?”

“Okay,” he says. “I will. I promise.”

“Goodbye, Ian. Stay safe.”

He tosses the phone down and reaches for Bill. It calms him to pet her. He never thought he’d have a cat. So many feral cats around growing up, darting away when he got close. He still doesn’t understand why Bill was so calm when he approached her that day. But sometimes it’s just time.

*

“Finally done.” Rex pushes the empty cart to the end of the aisle. “I gotta get home.”

“Yeah,” Ian says. He shoves his books in his backpack. “Have a good weekend.”

Rex taps the top of the doorway on his way out. Mickey starts to push the cart over to the library desk and pauses at a globe.

“Haven’t seen one of these,” Mickey says. “They must have just put it out.”

Ian comes closer. “You ever play that game where you find a place to live? On the globe?”

“What game?”

Ian pulls the globe a little closer to himself. He starts to spin it with one hand while dragging his pointer finger along the smooth surface. The globe slowly comes to a stop. Ian looks where his finger has landed.

“Queensland, Australia.”

Mickey grins. “Australia, huh? Gimme that.”

He spins the globe so fast he has to hold onto the base. His finger glides along and along until it stops.

Ian peers over. “South Atlantic ocean.”

“At least then I could see the ocean,” Mickey says with a chuckle.

In books, they always say that the heart beats faster. He isn’t sure it’s true when things feel like this, but it feels like it could be true somehow. He slowly reaches over and takes Mickey’s finger off the globe.

Mickey looks up at him. “What are you—”

“Mickey,” he says, taking Mickey’s hand in his. “About what happened. How we almost—”

“Look, man.” Mickey pulls his hand away cautiously. “Nothing has to happen if you don’t want it to.”

Ian shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I just need you to know what you’d be getting into.”

“Already told you,” Mickey says quietly. “You ain’t broken.”

Ian looks at the floor. “You don’t know everything yet.”

Mickey nudges Ian with his hand just once. “So try me.”

Ian looks up. He sets his shoulders and looks straight at Mickey like he’s waiting for a punch.

“I did a porno.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “You...did a porn—”

“Bareback.”

Ian feels a little sting in his eyes. He can’t feel his feet.

Ian’s breath shakes out. “Say something.”

Mickey doesn’t. Ian’s eyes burn harder.

“And,” Ian says. “And I have no idea how many men I’ve been with. I worked the back of the house as much as the front.”

Mickey nods slowly.

Ian’s voice shakes. “I said say something.”

Mickey takes a step closer. “Are you okay?”

Ian sniffs. Blinks hard. “Some days, I am,” he says. “Other days...” He doesn’t finish. He wipes his hands over his face. Breathes. He’s scared to look.

Mickey’s voice is kind and quiet. “And you think that’s enough to make me run?”

Ian drops his hands. His voice shakes. “I—I guess. I don’t know. I just thought you should know. Just in case.”

Mickey tilts his head. “In case what?”

Ian can feel Mickey’s rough fingers against his. Mickey’s face is close. So close. “In case you thought I was—”

“You’re not,” Mickey says.

Broken. Used up. Thrown away. Mickey knows all of it. All of what he was trying to say. He knows it. He knows him.

He wants Mickey to know him.

“Mickey,” Ian breathes.

Mickey’s hand slowly curls around the back of his neck. Ian’s eyes are fixed on Mickey’s full lips, the bite that releases.

“Come here,” Mickey says, and he doesn’t pull him as much as guide him slowly to his mouth.

Mickey’s lips are soft. Much softer than Ian expected. Ian’s hands slide around Mickey’s waist. He doesn’t pull. He doesn’t rush. He just holds him closer. And now Mickey’s hand slides into his hair, and now his lips are parting, and now Mickey’s tongue is on his. And it’s perfect.

Ian does speed up then. Just a little. Just enough to make Mickey give a low sound in his throat as their mouths move. Ian’s hand slides over his back, holding just beneath his shoulder blade.

Ian breaks away, just slightly, their foreheads together. “Are you sure?”

MIckey nods against him. “So fucking sure.”

Ian’s mouth catches Mickey’s as he holds him tighter. Mickey’s back is strong under Ian’s fingertips, the muscles stretching as Mickey lets himself be pulled. Mickey starts to kiss him harder, and Ian is ready for it. His other hand comes up to hold onto the back of Mickey’s head. He kisses him deeper. Deeper.

“Ian,” Mickey gasps, breaking away. “I don’t wanna stop. But my stupid P.O. is gonna pick me up.”

Ian is surprised by his shyness when he pulls away. He has a hard time meeting Mickey’s eyes.

“Hey,” Mickey says gently. He puts his hand on Ian’s cheek. “You in there?”

Ian blinks at him. He smiles. Surprises himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I’m in here.”

“Good,” Mickey says.

Ian nods. “Can I wait with you?”

Mickey’s eyes are so blue. “I’d like that.”

The hallway is empty. The doors open wide. The sun is shining. Hopeful. Ian feels a flush in his cheeks, a slow smile creeping. Mickey takes out a cigarette, lights it, takes a drag and passes it over.

Ian brings it to his lips. “What now?”

Mickey takes the cigarette back. “Now we know,” he says. “And now we can start.”

Ian can hardly breathe. “Yeah?”

Mickey nods. “Yeah.”

A car pulls up, Mickey gives a quick wave to the car and turns back.

“Call me over the weekend,” Mickey says, looking straight into Ian’s eyes. “I wanna see you.”

A little jump in his stomach. “Okay,” Ian says. “I will.”

The car takes Mickey away. The air feels clean and new. He walks to the train, hands in his pockets, and starts to laugh. His mind is light and curious, skating over the memory of Mickey’s lips and hands. Is this happening? It is. It really is. And he’s ready.

Chapter Text

There’s a large chalkboard sign outside the restaurant that says NOW HIRING in curly white script. Ian watched it being built over the spring and summer, scaffolding and brick, jackhammers and men shouting. Just like everything else in this neighborhood, it’s a combination of condos and restaurants. The whole block.

This restaurant seems promising. And fancy. Maybe too fancy. They have a sign on the building already. Metal. Strong capitals. The Earl. He shields his eyes and looks in the window. They have tables, chairs, and a beautiful bar made of heavy wood. A long line of taps. A wall of shelving for bottles, already stocked and lit from behind.

Just then he sees a woman come into view. He quickly leans back from the window, and the movement gets her attention. He’s about to walk away when she waves at him. He waves back.

She heads over to the door and talks through it. “Are you here for an interview?”

“Oh,” Ian says, shaking his head. “No. I was just looking at the hiring sign.”

She smiles. “Do you want an interview?”

Does he? He pauses. He nods. “Yeah. I mean yes. Uh. Sure. When?”

She laughs, muffled behind the glass. “How about right now?”

Ian glances at his watch. He doesn’t have to be at the Alibi for almost two more hours.

“I don’t have a resume with me or anything,” he says.

She laughs. “You don’t need one for now. We’ll just talk and see what you have to say. Do you have an ID?”

“Yes,” Ian says. “I’ve got that at least.”

“Good,” she says. She holds the door open. “Then you can prove who you are.”

He steps inside, leaving the sound of the street behind. He looks around again. The walls are painted a blue-grey, and there are more metal sculptures attached to the walls. He looks at the bar again. It’s beautiful.

“I’m Jane,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m one of the owners. There are three of us. The other two are my brothers. It should be interesting. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Five,” he says, shaking her hand. “I’m Ian. Ian Gallagher.”

“Oh wow. That’s a lot of siblings, Ian Gallagher.” She laughs. She gestures to one of the tables, where a legal pad and pen are waiting. “We can sit here. So tell me about yourself. Do you have serving experience?”

“No, but I have bartending experience,” he says hopefully. “I’ve bartended for about three years off and on.”

“Are you bartending now?”

He nods. “At The Alibi. It’s on the south side.”

She writes it down. She doesn’t look up. “Somewhere else before that?”

He hesitates. “Yeah. Uh.” He has to tell her. He straightens up a little bit in his chair. “The White Swallow. Boystown. That’s where I started.”

She doesn’t flinch. She just writes it down. “I bet that was interesting,” she says. “I’ve been there with my brother. His club days are more or less done, but he was a regular there for a while. I wonder if he’d recognize the red hair.”

Ian feels a worry in his stomach. What if he knows him? What if he—

“It’s a pretty big place,” he says. “I was busy all the time.”

“I’ll bet,” she says. She sets the pen down. “How do you make a Manhattan?”

The old guy with the earring. The first guy who paid him. He came fast, covering his face.

“Two parts whiskey or bourbon. Just shy of one part Vermouth. 2 dashes bitters. A cherry if they want it.”

She nods. “What’s the difference between that and an old fashioned?”

Sometimes the guy would mix it up. When the guy jammed his tongue into his mouth, Ian could taste the bourbon.

“Old fashioned has simple syrup or sugar. We used sugar there.”

Paper packets under the bar. Good boy the old guy said, slipping a pill into Ian’s mouth.

She nods. “Excellent. Do you know about the local craft beer scene?”

Ian is still trembling at the memory. Focus. Focus. He swallows. “Honestly, not so much. We had some of that at White Swallow, but people usually knew what they wanted. At The Alibi it’s more stuff like Old Style.” He leans forward. “But I’m a fast learner.”

“Do you drink? Do you think you’d be able to distinguish tastes? It’s really important. Wine, too.”

Jesus. This is definitely different. Ian nods. “I know I could do it.”

She squints. “You know what? I believe you. Are you available on weeknights?”

Ian nods. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Okay. We don’t open for two weeks. I’m mostly staffed, but someone backed out yesterday. We could only give you Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. They aren’t traditionally the most lucrative days in the restaurant world, although we are hoping to bust that wide open. We have a great chef, so hopefully we’ll be busy all week. At the very least, it will be a foot in while we get going.”

He nods. “I’d love that. Yes.”

She leans back and smiles at him. “I like you,” she says. “I have a good feeling about you.” She pushes the legal pad over to him. “Write down a contact name for the people at The White Swallow and The Alibi so I can give them a call. Can you come on Tuesday at 6 for a tasting?”

Someone from The White Swallow? Shit. Maybe the bar manager? He’s the one who trained him. They got along okay.

“Definitely. That’s perfect.” Ian looks around. He smiles. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you so much.”

His doctor said he could do it. Kev and V will understand. He’ll probably make more money if it’s as good as they hope. And it’s something that will be just his. His choice. His chance. Just his. New.

He can be new.

*

Ever since the south side started getting gentrified, hipsters are crowding The Alibi on weekends. Hipsters like a good dive. He was steady until Kev sent him home at 9:30. He doesn’t quite get to stay to scrape up the last of the money, but he’s grateful to work on a weekend anyway. Kev says he can keep doing it as long as he can.

It’s almost 11 by the time he gets home. The train was a mess and it’s snowing again. He’s sick of the snow. Sick of the ice that thaws and freezes. But it’s the last day of February, and March eases. April wakes up. May is every promise ever made.

His shoes are wet. His socks are wet. The hem of his pants are wet. He pulls them all off and leaves them on the floor. Takes off his coat.

The bed is comfortable and just what he needs. He buries his face in his pillow. He thought about Mickey all day. The way they held each other. The way Mickey said ”And now we can start.”

Now they can start.

He sighs into the pillow.

Should he?

It’s okay, isn’t it?

His phone is still in his pants.

Mickey did want him to call. Is it too late?

Fuck it. He’s going to do it.

He pushes off the bed, a new urgency, new energy. He slides the phone out and stares at it. He takes a deep breath and begins to type.

Hey. You awake?

A long pause. Bill stares at him from the kitchen counter.

Mickey’s text pops up. I am now

Ian chuckles. Feel like texting?

I don’t text I voice text just call me

It only rings once.

Mickey is smiling. Ian can hear it in his voice. “Yeah?”

Ian grins. “What do you mean ‘yeah’? Is that how you answer the phone?”

“Knew it was you. Didn’t know I needed manners.”

From his bed he sees the lights starting to go off in the apartment building across the street. People are headed to bed. He is not. Not anymore.

“I wanna see you,” Ian says. “I want you to come over.”

Mickey laughs. “Now? It’ll take me forever. Don’t you live on the west side?”

“So? It’s actually further south. Cause of the river.”

“Mmm,” Mickey says, teasing. “Why do you want me to come over so bad, huh?”

Ian swallows hard. Tell the truth. Now he tells the truth. “I wanna kiss you again.”

He can hear Mickey breathing.

“Text me where.”

*

Once Ian hangs up the phone, he starts to panic.

He looks around the apartment. Not too bad. At least he put away his laundry. He throws his wet clothes in the hamper. He'll deal with them later. He picks up some stray papers and shoves them in a drawer. There. Better? Sure.

Shower. Should he? He smells himself. Yes.

It’s fast, and although he wants to, he doesn’t touch his dick any more than necessary. He dries off and catches his reflection without meaning to. He starts to look away, but looks back. Breathes. He’s in his body. No cameras. No lights. All that is over. It’s just him. Flesh and bone, bare feet and clear eyes.

He feels flushed from the shower, and chooses soft clothes. Sweatpants. His favorite green shirt that’s perfectly worn in.

His phone buzzes. That was fast.

“I’m fucking freezing,” Mickey pants. “Let me in.”

He chuckles. “Top floor. Number 9.” He presses the buzzer. He looks around his apartment quickly. Bill jumps off the counter and curls up on a kitchen chair.

Take a breath. Take a breath. Ian’s eyes fall on his meds on the windowsill. Does it look too many? Nothing he can do about it. His first instinct is to run and hide them. But he’s done hiding.

The knock at the door is heavy. Ian can’t open it fast enough.

“I’m here,” Mickey says, immediately pushing inside the apartment. His eyebrows are raised, a slight dare on his lips. “Even spent money on an Uber.”

“Wow.” Ian raises an eyebrow, impressed. “I’ll pay you back. That’s really...eager of you.”

Mickey laughs and bends to take off his boots. “It’s late,” he says. “The train is fucked this time of night anyway.” When Mickey looks up, he blinks. His cheeks are flushed from the cold.

“Hey,” Ian says softly. “I’m glad you came.”

Mickey stands up slowly, looks Ian up and down. His tongue curls in his cheek.

Ian returns Mickey’s look. Up and down and back to his eyes.

Ian is hit with a wave of shyness, but it doesn’t stop him from stepping closer.

“I really needed to see you,’ Ian says. His hands shake, just a little bit, as he slowly reaches for Mickey’s coat. He stares in Mickey’s eyes as he carefully unzips it. His eyes drop to Mickey’s lips as he eases the coat over his shoulders, letting it fall.

“C’mere,” Mickey breathes. He holds onto Ian’s hips and carefully backs him into the room. Ian lets himself be guided, stepping back, but he lets his arms hang by his sides. He knows he’s close to his bed. He knows they will end up there.

But not yet.

Ian swallows. His throat is dry. He bends to whisper in Mickey’s ear, “How do you want to be kissed?”

He feels more than hears the hitch in Mickey’s breath.

“Hard,” Mickey says. His fingers tighten around Ian’s hips.

Ian nuzzles into his neck. Just slightly. Just enough. “Slow or fast?”

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers. “Slow.”

He puts his lips against Mickey’s skin. Almost a kiss. But not quite.

Mickey gasps as his head rocks back. “Touch me.”

Ian leaves Mickey’s neck and looks straight into his eyes. Mickey’s eyes are hooded and heavy.

The waiting. The tiny moment where Ian’s breath speeds up, his eyes full of Mickey. He slides one arm around Mickey’s waist and pulls him closer. Ian wants to draw it out, let the tension build, but he can’t help leaning in, brushing lips against Mickey’s.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Ian whispers against his lips. Mickey’s breath comes fast, but their lips stay slack and soft. “The taste of you.”

Mickey groans into Ian’s mouth. Ian’s other hand comes up to hold the back of Mickey’s head, hold him steady.

“Ian,” Mickey sighs. “Please.”

Ian is breathing hard. God, he’s so beautiful. Mickey’s eyes blink once, so quickly, like he doesn’t want to miss anything.

“Close your eyes,” Ian whispers.

Mickey gives one little flutter of his eyelids, and as soon as they are closed, Ian moves in.

And Ian kisses him. Mickey’s lips are so strong against his, meeting Ian’s kiss eagerly, pulling and pushing, a little noise in his throat. Ian’s arm tightens around Mickey’s waist.

Mickey’s hand comes up to hold his face. Their breath comes fast, and they press closer. Harder. Their hands begin to wander—hips, back, neck. Fingers pressing hard. Ian pulls back and Mickey licks into his mouth, slowly and deliberately. Ian’s fingers begin to creep beneath the hem of Mickey's shirt, tracing the top of his jeans with a light, slow pattern. Mickey breathes harder into his mouth. “Yes,” he says. “Fuck.”

Ian’s fingers press in harder, and begin to slide up his back. Mickey’s skin is soft and he can feel the muscles move as he heads toward his shoulder blade, his neck, the inside of the shirt brushing against his knuckles. Take it off. He wants to take it off. He doesn’t know if it’s okay. He’s not sure what to do.

Ian must have paused, because Mickey’s thumb starts sliding against his cheek, and he looks into Ian’s eyes, eyebrows raised. “Are you okay? Still good?”

Ian nods. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m okay.” He lets his fingertips glide back down Mickey’s back, fighting the urge to go lower when he comes to his belt. He pulls at the hem of the shirt, lifting it slightly. “I really want to take this off. I wanna see you.”

Mickey groans. “I wanna see you too.” His hands slide up Ian’s back fast, grabbing him by the neck. When Mickey’s mouth meets his, it immediately begins to speed up. Mickey takes it deeper, holding onto Ian’s face tighter. Fuck.

“Take it off,” Mickey sighs. “Take it off slow.”

It is not time to wait. Not anymore. Ian pulls away and reaches down, fingers sliding beneath Mickey’s shirt again, sliding it up, letting his eyes catch on Mickey's stomach and chest. Ian breathes out fast as it falls. Mickey's eyes are so blue. So wide. He nods, knowing that Mickey is asking with his eyes. He reaches back and pulls his own shirt off, tossing it aside.

Mickey’s hands slide up the front of Ian’s body. They feel exactly how he thought. Rough in places. Soft in places. He gasps.

“Jesus,” Mickey groans. “Look at you. Fuck.”

Ian smiles, shy but so turned on it almost hurts. He doesn’t know what to say, but he feels centered. Brave. He reaches for Mickey’s belt and pulls him closer.

“Get on the bed,” Ian pants, and Mickey groans. Ian grabs him by the hips and turns him around and oh god oh god oh god where’s the bed.

Here. It’s here. Mickey sighs as Ian settles on top of him. A jumble of legs. Mickey’s tongue on his. The shake of their breath. Mickey pulls him down by the neck and kisses there firmly, a small suck, then harder.

“Fuck,” Ian breathes. “That feels so good.” Let him leave a mark. He wants it.

Mickey breaks away and leans up again to meet his lips. Ian rocks his hips down without meaning to.

And there, oh there. Right there, Ian can feel Mickey is hard.

“I can feel you,” Ian pants, eyes wide.

The fabric strains against them, the pull and push of cotton and denim interrupting as Ian’s fingers race up the front of Mickey’s body. God he’s breathing hard. They both are.

“You feel so good,” Ian groans. His hips rock down again. He closes his eyes, slowly kissing thick, perfect lips. The pace is just what he needs. Ian tries to stay still, but the pressure against him is so great that he presses down again, a tiny, tense wave.

Mickey’s tongue moves against his, curling and following him. It feels primal. The way they move, taste each other, tease.

“Hey,” Mickey pants. “You still okay?”

Ian quickly pulls Mickey on top of him. His legs part and he slides his knees up, letting Mickey settle between them. Fuck. Ian is getting so hard. “Yes,” Ian says, fingers resting patiently at Mickey’s lower back. “I want to keep going.”

Mickey nods. Their kiss is deep. Ian’s fingertips slowly trace along the top of Mickey’s jeans again. Mickey presses down on him, just shy of a grind. Ian feels like he’s going to explode if he doesn’t touch him. Touch him more. Touch him there.

His hands slide over Mickey’s ass.

“Ah!” Mickey breaks away, burying his head in his arm, his body rolling. “Fuck.”

Ian presses him close. Harder. Tighter.

“I bet you take it so good,” Ian whispers.

Mickey’s mouth is slack, his eyes closed. “Yeah.”

Ian cups his ass. God. His voice shakes. “Can you feel how big I am?”

Mickey is panting, chest heaving against his. “So fucking big.”

Ian lets Mickey’s tongue sweep into his mouth lazily, blissed out.

Mickey’s eyes open slowly. “How big are you?”

“Nine,” Ian whispers.

Mickey moans, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Too big?” Ian hopes not. It has been, before.

Mickey shakes his head slowly. “That’s fucking perfect.”

Ian groans, kissing Mickey again. His head spins. “Want you.” His hands leave his ass and slide to his hips. He pulls at his belt.

Mickey gasps, then pulls back, just a little. Just enough to get his point across. Ian’s hands drop.

“Hey,” Mickey says, voice shaky. “Hey, we have to calm down.” He’s breathing hard. “We gotta, oh shit, we gotta calm down.” He huffs out a smile.

Ian freezes.

“Wait.” Mickey’s smile drops.

Ian starts to squirm. He puts his hands on Mickey’s hips. “Can you, um.” He tries to crawl out from under him.

“Hey.” Mickey sits up, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Slow down.”

“It’s okay that you wanna stop,” Ian says. “I know why you stopped.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know if you do.”

“You think I’m.” He takes a breath. “From all the stuff I told you. The stuff I did. You think I’m—”

“No.” Mickey’s voice is stern and final. “No. I don’t think that.”

“Because I can’t fucking take it back,” Ian says desperately. “It happened.”

“I know that,” Mickey says. “You don’t need to worry about that. That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.”

Ian looks down at his hands.

“Ian, I fuckin’ want you.” Mickey reaches for Ian’s knee. “But we shouldn’t. Not tonight. It’s too soon. We should make sure.”

“Make sure of what?” Ian’s voice is quiet.

“That you’re ready,” Mickey says. “That we’re ready.”

Ian rubs his hands on his face. “You’re right.” He pauses, sighs heavily, covers his face with his hands with a frustrated groan.

Mickey pulls Ian’s hands down from his face. “Lemme see you. I wanna look at you.”

Ian’s heart could burst. “Why?”

Mickey’s hand finds his cheek, fingertips sliding against his cheekbone. “Cause I like looking at you.”

Ian smiles, feeling shy again. “Thank you,” Ian says quietly. His eyes are wide, his heart is wide, and Mickey is here, and he’s real.

“Why are you thanking me?” Mickey’s voice is soft and patient, his eyes steady and still.

Ian’s eyes start to burn. He blinks hard. Tries to clear the tightness in his throat. “Because you made sure I’m still here.”

They stare at each other, and Ian bends over to softly kiss him. It isn’t urgent. It isn’t deep. It’s just a thank you, his thank you.

“I like you,” Ian says quietly.

There is sleet tapping lightly against the window. It’s going to be icy outside. The radiator hisses. Mickey smiles.

“I like you, too.”

Ian smiles. “Do you...maybe...wanna stay?”

Mickey pauses. “Stay? Like, stay over?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh,” Mickey says, looking around.

“You don't have to,” Ian says quickly. “It’s just so late, and—”

“Sure.”

“Seriously?” Ian says. “You mean it?”

The covers are askew, and Ian suddenly feels full of longing. Just a wide, wide longing for Mickey, for sleep, for everything good.

Mickey smiles, glances around the bed. “Which side’s mine?”

Ian never thought it could be like this again. Not running. Not hiding. Just him. “That side. You’re already in it. It’s been waiting for you.”

*

He senses the warmth next to him before he opens his eyes, and for a split second he panics. He flashes to strangers, to the fear of someone staying whose face he doesn’t remember. The flashes to a sour stomach, a pounding head.

But his stomach is fine, and his head is fine. And when he opens his eyes, he sees the back of Mickey’s head, his dark hair, his wide shoulders. The expanse of his pale back. He pulls the sheet back slightly, and can see the waistband of Mickey’s boxers. Mickey was shy about it. He was careful to ask if it was okay. But jeans aren’t comfortable to sleep in.

Now, he tries hard to forget how close Mickey’s skin is in his boxers. He remembers Mickey’s hardness, his want.

He remembers them stopping.

He sighs and slides out from the covers. Stretches. Bill is waiting for him in the kitchen as usual. He bends to pet her and she meows.

He reaches for his meds and shakes them into his palm. He fills a coffee mug with water and swallows them down. He pauses. He looks over to see Mickey’s hand tucked beneath the pillow, mouth open just slightly.

Beautiful.

He gets out another mug.

The coffee smells good as it brews. Ian slowly slides back into bed, trying not to jostle the mattress, but Mickey rolls over. His eyes open slightly, and a smile spreads across his face.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from sleep.

“Hi,” Ian says. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay,” Mickey says. “I gotta go to Patsy’s anyhow. What time is it?”

Ian pulls his watch off the nightstand. “Almost 7:30.”

“Mmm,” Mickey groans. “I gotta get movin’. Gotta be there by 10. The early morning washer gets pissed if I’m late.”

“I have coffee,” Ian says. He cautiously reaches over and touches Mickey’s hand. “If you want some before you go.”

Mickey takes his hand. “I don’t wanna go, but the trains will take forever.”

Ian tightens his fingers around Mickey’s hand. “I’ll give you cash for an Uber. Stay.”

Mickey wavers. “Can’t let you do that,” he says.

“Why not? I’m being selfish anyway.” Ian smiles. “I want you to stay.”

Mickey smiles back. “You wanna be my sugar daddy? I could use one.”

Ian laughs. “I’m serious! Do you need to borrow some clothes?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Nah. I get gross washin’ dishes.”

Ian pauses and slides his hand down Mickey’s arm, curling around his shoulder, brushing his neck with his thumb.

Mickey bites his lip, then releases. “You startin’ somethin’? You one of those ‘horny in the morning’ people?”

“Not always,” Ian says with a grin. “But this is the first time you’ve been here.”

Mickey scoots closer to him. “What about my breath?”

“I’m one of those ‘I don’t care’ people,” Ian says. “C’mere.”

Mickey laughs against his lips. His kiss is slow and lazy, perfect for the morning. Ian hums and wraps his arm around him, fingertips finding his lower back, pulling him closer. His skin is so warm.

Mickey pulls at his shoulder, and Ian knows what he wants. Ian rolls over on top of him. He props himself on one elbow, looking down at him. Mickey whispers something Ian can’t hear and drags his fingers through the hair on Ian’s chest.

“Really like this,” he says. “Glad you don’t shave it off.”

Ian shakes his head. “Did enough of that at the club. They liked me hairless.” There’s a little twinge at the memory, but not much. “You don’t like that?”

“Nah,” Mickey says. “I like it like this.” His fingers slide up to Ian’s neck, pausing at a place near his collarbone. “Looks like I got ya,” he says, and presses on a sore spot. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Ian chuckles. “I’m not. I liked it. I’ll get you next time.”

Mickey grins. “Fucking love getting my neck kissed.”

“Yeah? Then let’s give you what you love,” Ian says. He kisses Mickey softly, then a little harder. Mickey’s tongue slides out and finds Ian's before turning his face to the side.

Mickey's neck tastes good. Ian kisses fully, deeply, and when he sucks slightly, Mickey moans, his hands sliding into Ian’s hair and holding him close. Everything about him is warm and soft and safe.

“Need to stop,” Mickey pants, pulling at his hair. “I’m startin’ to get hard.”

“I know,” Ian says. “I can feel you.”

“Just having you close is gettin’ to me.” Mickey huffs out a laugh, hands drifting across Ian’s shoulders. “Don’t easily forget nine inches.”

He smiles. He pauses, because Mickey feels good underneath him, against him. But Ian starts to shift. “I should probably,” he begins, and slides off Mickey carefully.

Mickey’s hands drop as Ian moves over. “Yeah.”

Ian stays on his stomach, trying not to press too deeply into the mattress. He watches as Mickey rubs his hands over his face.

“It’s gonna be so fuckin’ good,” Mickey says, looking over. He bites his lip. “When we finally do.”

Ian laughs. “Absolutely.” He reaches over to smooth Mickey’s hair, messy from sleep. He’s still smiling when his fingers find a thick scar in Mickey’s hairline above his left eye. “What’s this?”

Mickey flinches. His voice is rough and fast. “Don’t touch that.”

Ian pulls his hand away quickly. His mouth is open, surprised. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Mickey sits up, stares at the sheet that covers them. “I don’t like having that touched.”

“Okay,” Ian says. He sits up too. “I promise I won’t again.”

Mickey clenches his jaw. “I have a few scars from growin’ up,” he says. “And I don’t like to fuckin’ talk about em.”

Ian nods. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey slides off the bed and reaches for his pants. “You didn’t know.”

“Wait,” Ian says. He reaches for Mickey’s hand, but Mickey steps away.

“I need to go,” Mickey says, grabbing his shirt and pulling it on. “It’s getting late.” He heads to the door, starts to pull on his boots. He’s moving so fast. “Just forget it,” he says.

Ian squints. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he says. “You don’t. I just want to know if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” he spits.

Ian’s mouth is open. “It’s not fine though.” He slides off the bed and walks toward him. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” Mickey says sharply, zipping his coat. “I just don’t want to talk about it. Already said that. Now drop it.”

Ian bites back another apology. “You can trust me,” he says quietly. “Like I trust you.”

Mickey bites his lip hard. Opens the door. “Not with this. It’s too much.”

“It’s not too much,” Ian says firmly.

Mickey pauses in the doorway.

“Please,” Ian says.

“Maybe someday,” Mickey says finally. “But not today.”

Mickey doesn’t shut the door behind him. He just walks down the hall and rounds the staircase, and then he’s out of sight.

*

Mickey never texted him or called him back.

He’s nervous when he gets off the train on Monday. Nervous when the building comes into view. Nervous when he sees Mickey leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette.

He stops three feet away. “Hey.”

Mickey blows the smoke out. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Ian shakes his head. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he says. “But I need to know if we’re okay. If you’re mad at me and don’t want to talk to me I understand. But I need to know. Are we okay or not?”

MIckey pushes off the building and comes closer. He passes the cigarette over. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re okay. Should have called you back to tell you so. Just busy with work. Sundays are a fuckin’ nightmare.”

Ian blows the smoke out. “It’s fine. I understand.” He takes one more drag and passes it back.

Mickey stares at him, and Ian thinks he said the wrong thing. Mickey blows smoke out his nose and throws the cigarette in the snow. “Still should’ve.”

Ian shakes his head. “It’s my fault anyway.”

“Not your fault. Couldn’t have known,” Mickey says. “It was a long time ago. Sometimes it just gets me.”

Ian’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Mickey rubs his hands together, blows warm breath onto them. “Talk about somethin’ else.”

“Um.” Ian swings his backpack around and opens the zipper. “I bought you the sequel to that comic you liked,” he says.

Mickey takes it from him and looks at its cover. His face softens. “Didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Ian says. He steps closer. “I wanted to.”

Mickey looks over his shoulder and leans forward. One small kiss, so soft, and Ian smiles into it.

“Here?” Ian kisses one more time before pulling back. “You’re bolder than I thought.”

Mickey grins. “Not afraid to fuck up someone who has a problem. Specially not the sorry assholes who go here.”

Ian laughs. “You go here.”

“Not really. Not yet.” Mickey punches him in the arm and opens the door.

“Yet?” Ian smiles. “So you’re really thinking about it?”

Mickey shrugs and gives him a push. “Get in. I wanna read this comic.”

They’re okay. Good. Okay. Ian breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Thanks,” Mickey says quietly. “I know you were just trying to help me. It’s just. I can’t talk about it.”

“I know,” Ian says. “I know what it’s like to have things you can’t talk about.”

Mickey’s hand brushes his, and Ian takes it. The hallway is very crowded for some reason. People laughing and talking. He expects Mickey to pull his hand away. But he doesn’t. He holds Ian’s hand tighter.

Tighter.

Chapter Text

Ian made sure he ate first. He doesn’t know how much he’ll be drinking. God, he hopes it’s not a lot. Maybe they are fancy enough that they won’t make him drink it all. He’s heard about wineries that let you spit it in a bucket. He’d gladly spit in a bucket if it means he won’t get drunk. He hasn’t been drunk in a very long time. He doesn’t know what would happen to him if he got drunk now. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. It would also mean letting his guard down, and he’s not sure he wants to do that either.

A man answers the door this time. He opens the door wide.

“Welcome,” the man says. “You’re the first one here. Early arrival. I like it.”

“I don’t like being late,” Ian says with a somewhat embarrassed shrug. “Even being on time feels late to me.”

The man smiles. “That’s an admirable quality,” he says. “Hard to find these days.” He extends his hand. “I’m Paul.”

“Ian.”

“Ian. Oh yeah. She mentioned you. White Swallow, right?”

“Right,” he says weakly. He wants to get out of this conversation as quickly as possible. Please, someone else show up. “A long time ago.”

Paul laughs. “I haven’t been there in years. Met my husband at The Fairy Tail though. You ever been there?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been there.”

“Should shut that place down,” he mutters. “I’ve heard some shady shit goes on there.”

Oh god.

Ian clears his throat. Change the subject. Now. “So you two own this place with your brother?”

“Yeah,” Paul sighs. “Well, our brother is a silent partner. He’s the one with the cash.” He gestures to a table with glasses of water on it. “Go ahead and sit,” he says. “We’ll wait a few minutes then get started. Tell me about yourself.” He grins. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Ian shifts in his seat. He used to say no when he worked in Boystown. Men wanted the fantasy of him single, available, attached to nothing and no one. But he knows how he should always, always answer this question now. “Yes.”

“I’m constantly trying to set people up,” he says. “It’s kind of my specialty.”

Ian doesn’t respond.

“I know it’s inappropriate,” Paul says. “But this is the restaurant industry, right? We are nothing if not inappropriate.”

There’s the clicking sound of heels, approaching fast. Jane.

“Paul, what the fuck?

Paul turns. “Come on, just joking around.”

Jane pushes him in the shoulder. “Leave him alone. If our brother heard you he’d pull the plug!”

“Brother’s a lawyer,” Paul says with a wink. “Never even waited tables during school. I mean, everyone does that, right? Are you in school?”

God, please someone show up. “N—no,” he stammers. “Not right now.”

Jane drops a basket of bread on the table. “Oh. I called your references, but the guy you gave me at The White Swallow must have quit or something. They said he didn’t work there anymore. Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“Um,” Ian says. Shit. Fuck. Should he? Ian still knows the truth about what goes on there. He still has that to bargain with at least. “Yeah, I guess you could talk to the owner? He knows me.”

Jane nods. “That’ll work then!” Her voice is bright. She rubs her hands together and sighs. Three women knock on the door. Paul excuses himself to answer.

“Sorry again about him. The boyfriend stuff,” Jane says. “That was so rude.”

Ian eyes the bread, but doesn’t take any. “It’s okay,” he says. It’s not okay.

He sneaks a glance at Paul. He doesn’t recognize him. He would have said something by now, right? Right. His husband, though. Should he worry about his husband?

He shakes it off as the women come and sit down. He forces a smile and a hello. Jane starts with a little presentation about types of craft beer and passes out sheets of paper with descriptions and categories. Paul comes over with something he calls a flight. Five little glasses in a row on a wooden board, one board for each of them.

Ian takes a sip of a dark red beer that has, as Paul says, an excellent hop profile. A dark brown beer, then a light beer, then another red one. The one after that is a Pilsner. Paul sets another flight down on the table. From there, he starts to lose track.

“Definitely not The White Swallow, huh?” Paul laughs. “What did you serve there?”

“Bottles mostly. Easier to dance with,” Ian says. He can feel a little buzz in his forehead. “But it was mostly cocktails and shots. People wanted to get drunk as fast as possible.”

“Oh my god,” one of the women says. “You worked there ?”

Ian nods.

She laughs. “My best friend works at The Fairy Tail. Tom? Do you know him? I know they’re owned by the same guy.”

Ian reaches for the next glass nervously, then sets it down. Yes. He knows Tom. He tries to keep his face expressionless.

“I didn’t work there,” Ian says. He takes another piece of bread.

“Thank God,” the woman says. “I hear that place is… let’s just say I’ve worked at a few clubs downtown. I’m ready to move on from that world. The money is great, but it’s almost not worth it.”

Ian nods, shoves some bread into his mouth so he won’t have to talk.

“One more flight,” Jane says. “Then we’ll move onto wine. Everybody doing okay?”

*

Ian makes it out the door without tipping his hand to exactly how drunk he feels. He’s not falling down or anything, but that was way more than he’s had in a long, long time. It’s dark out. People are laughing on the street. He watches his feet navigate the ice. It’s only three blocks to his apartment. He can make it.

His key misses the lock twice. The stairs seem to go on forever. He manages to open his door on the first try. He kicks off his shoes roughly and flops on his bed with a sigh.

“Oops,” he says. “Bill, something happened.”

She jumps on the bed and peers down at him.

“They made me drink too much.” He pets her and she lies down on his neck. He allows it for a moment, then gently pushes her off. “They are teaching me how to…” he trails off. His phone buzzes. It’s ringing.

Mickey.

Ian fumbles with the phone and takes a deep, satisfied breath.

“Hey you,” Ian says. “I have to warn you. That tasting was more like a gulping. I’m a little drunk. Not a ton, but I’m feeling it.”

“Heh heh,” Mickey says. “They can’t have given you that much.”

“Mmm,” Ian says. “They did, though. And the meds get me loopy if I drink. So enjoy it. This won’t ever happen again.”

He hears Mickey light a cigarette.

“I miss you,” Ian says.

He hears Mickey blow out the smoke. “You just saw me.”

“Not tonight though,” Ian says. “You should come over.” Ian reaches for the other side of the bed. “I’m touching where you slept,” he says. “I want you to sleep over again.”

“Not tonight,” Mickey says. “I’m working anyways. Outside on my break.”

“Will you though? Sleep over again?”

Another breath. A pause. “Sure.”

Ian grins. “When?” His voice sounds raspy.

Mickey laughs. “Soon. I’ll sleep over again soon.”

“Mmm,” Ian hums. “And I can kiss the fuck out of you.”

“I’d like that,” Mickey says quietly. “Like that mouth of yours.”

Ian smiles. “Know what I like? I like to feel you get hard.”

Mickey laughs. “Oh, so we’re doin’ this?”

“Doing what?” Ian teases.

Mickey lowers his voice. “Dirty talk on the phone.”

“Maybe. You got a problem with that?”

“No, I just—” Mickey pauses.

“Just talk to me,” Ian says. “Pretend you’re here.”

A deep breath. “Okay, fine. I like that too.”

“Like what?”

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Don’t make me say it, asswipe.”

“You wanna feel me get hard,” Ian blurts out. “You wanna see my dick, don’t you?”

“Ian,” Mickey laughs. “You been drinkin’.”

“So? I feel fine. Answer the question.”

“K, look,” Mickey says. “I do. I do wanna see it. You know I do.”

Ian hums. “You should see it next time you come over.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything.

Ian pauses. “Are you still there?”

“Want to,” Mickey says. “Would that be okay?”

Ian closes his eyes and smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “I’m ready for that. I want that, too.” He stares at the ceiling. He misses Mickey. “What would you do if you were here?”

Mickey’s voice is low and quiet. “I’d do whatever you told me. Whatever you wanted.”

“Jesus,” he whispers. “Want you, Mickey.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” Ian hums. “Wanna touch you. Want you to think of me when you touch yourself.”

Mickey breathes in sharply. “What?”

“Go to the bathroom and touch yourself,” Ian says.

“How’m I supposed to talk dirty on the phone in a public bathroom stall?” Mickey groans. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Why,” Ian groans. “Are you hard?”

“Gettin’ there fast. Really fast.”

“Fuck,” Ian says. ‘Wish I could feel you. Are you still alone?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, but his voice is low anyway. “I’m alone.”

“Good,” Ian says. “Tell me what your dick looks like.”

Mickey hesitates. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Wanna imagine it when I touch myself.” He palms himself through his jeans. “I’m hard, Mick. Wish you were here.”

“Shit,” Mickey hisses.

“Tell me,” Ian says. “Tell me what it looks like.”

Mickey pauses. Ian can hear him breathe. “Not too long,” he says. “But I’m thick.”

“Shit, what else? Are you cut?”

Another pause. “Nuh-uh. Not cut.”

Ian sighs. Christ. “Fucking love that.”

Mickey’s voice is hopeful. “Yeah? Not everyone does.”

“I do.”

Mickey’s breath is shaky when he speaks. “Ian. You serious?” He imagines Mickey standing in the cold night, the exhaled air hot, lips parted in wonder.

“Completely serious.” Uncut. Fuck. He wants to see it. He wishes he could see it. Now.

“I want you to touch me,” Mickey whispers.

Ian palms himself harder. “I’d take my time. I’d wait for you to be begging. Begging me to let you come.”

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes.

“Feel you leak in my hand,” Ian grunts. “You’d slide so easy. Wrap around you. I’d make you feel so good. Would you like that?”

“Y-yeah,” Mickey pants. “But Ian, I gotta—”

“Then come over.”

“Ian, I can’t. I gotta go,” Mickey says.

“What? Why? I’m just getting started!”

Ian can hear him smile. “Cause you got me worked up is why! I gotta go back in like two minutes.”

“Two minutes?” Ian laughs. “Stay on the phone. I’ll get you off in two minutes.”

“I can rub one out in two minutes, too,” Mickey laughs. “So I gotta go to the fuckin’ bathroom and take care of this shit. You too. You probably got your hand down your pants by now.”

“Almost,” Ian says.

“Get busy, then.” Mickey says. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ian tosses the phone down. He’s never done that. Talked dirty on the phone. Of all the demands he’s ever had on him, he’s never done that. That was sweet, and playful, and just for Mickey. He had something just for Mickey. He laughs at the ceiling and unzips his pants.

*

“Look what came in the mail.” Ian tosses a yellow padded envelope on the table.

Mickey looks up with a grin. “Morning.”

Ian can feel something warm in his cheeks. “Morning.” He settles in his chair and pushes the envelope toward Mickey. “It’s not much. One’s a thing for writing. You hold it in your hand and it adjusts your grip. It might be uncomfortable but can help with you holding a pen or pencil. I noticed you hold it really low when you write.”

“Only way I can control it,” Mickey says.

Ian nods. “I know,” he says. “But you hold it differently when you draw. More relaxed. So I thought we’d try this and meet in the middle.”

Mickey shrugs. “I guess.”

“You don’t have to use it,” Ian says. “It’s just an idea to try. It might make it easier to see the words when you write. I know that’s been tricky.”

Mickey nods. He starts to play with the envelope. “What’s the other thing?”

“Different color clear sheets. You put them over the words in a book or something. Some people can read easier when there’s an overlay. I don’t know. You don’t have to use this stuff. It’s just—”

“I’ll try it,” Mickey says with a smile. “Sounds weird, but I’ll try it.” He starts to open the envelope and shakes the stuff out. He looks at the overlays and sets them aside. He plays with the rubber pencil holder and holds it in his grip.

“If it doesn’t work, my feelings aren’t hurt,” Ian says quickly. “I just read about it online and thought why not. I thought maybe you could copy some words from the reading book and see if you like it.”

Mickey grabs his pencil and forces the holder on. “Higher?” Ian nods. Mickey pushes it up farther and tests it out. “Feels like it’s up really high.”

“It’s about where you hold it when you draw,” Ian says, pulling out his notebook. “You can try it there. It’ll feel weird at first, but it’s going to help you hold it the right way.”

Mickey lifts his eyebrows. “Feels wrong.” He reaches for the notebook anyway and opens his reading book. He pauses, then closes it. “I’m gonna try and write my own stuff,” he says. “Not gonna spell it all right, but.”

“I can read your writing,” Ian says. “It’s okay.”

Mickey takes his time. The pencil wobbles a little, but he manages. He pushes the notebook over.

You hungover?

Ian chuckles softly. “Not really,” he says. “Thankfully.”

Mickey points at the notebook. “If I’m writing, you gotta write too.”

Ian looks down and thinks. Should he? He looks over at Rex. He has his head down on another table, presumably asleep.

Last night on the phone was fun. I meant every single word I said. Did you get yourself off before you went back to work?

He pushes it across. Mickey squints at it and reaches for an overlay. He chooses yellow. “It gets me nervous when I see this much at one time.”

Ian nods. “I know. But we can practice.”

“Okay,” Mickey says quietly. He stares at the words, and his lips move. He doesn’t do that every time he reads, but Ian has noticed he does it when they write back and forth. He grins and gives Ian a look.

Ian gestures to the paper.

Mickey writes slowly. I ment it to

Ian grins. Answer the question. Did you come?

When Mickey reads it, he looks up, lips parted.

Yes

Ian breathes in as he reads the words. One word. So simple. But it’s got him interested already. I wish I was there to see it.

MIckey’s lips spread into a slow smile as he reads. He picks up his pencil. Came hard. Truble stayin quiet

Ian hums. He looks over at Rex again. He writes I wasn’t lying. I want to see your dick.

Mickey grips the pencil so hard his fingers whiten. I’ll show you

Ian swallows. When?

Mickey laughs. “Eager,” he says out loud.

“No talking,” Ian says. “Just write.”

Mickey takes his time. He writes each letter slowly. Tumarrow

Why not tonight? I can’t wait until tomorrow.

Mickey reads it slowly, then laughs. Work.

After work. What time are you done? I’ll come to you. We can go to your house.

Mickey slides the yellow sheet over the paper again. His smile begins to fade. No. When he pushes the notebook back, it’s a little rougher.

Ian looks into Mickey’s eyes and nods slowly. Okay. I just thought maybe easier?

Mickey barely looks at the paper. Ian doesn’t think he reads it at all. Mickey shakes his head. “No way,” he says out loud. “I fucking hate it there. I can barely live there.”

“Okay,” Ian says fast, trying to smooth things over. “That’s okay. We won’t go there.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t reach for the notebook either. “Maybe I should read,” he says. “My hand is getting tired with this rubber thing.”

“Are you okay?” He tries to catch Mickey’s eye, but Mickey won’t look at him.

“Sure,” Mickey says. He reaches for the blue overlay and opens his reading book. He slides the blue over the words, then slides it off again. The overlays sit in a messy pile next to him. Mickey leans over the book. He doesn’t look up again.

*

The rest of the day creeps along slowly. Mickey doesn’t talk much. Rex talks too much.

“So I said to her, look,” Rex says. “It was a robbery. I mean, she could google me to make sure. Not like I killed someone. But she didn’t write back. Then she blocked me.”

“I don’t think you should lead with your crimes,” Ian says.

“I believe in honesty,” Rex says. “Might as well get it out there. If you don’t say all the dark shit outright, you just gotta do it later. If they’re gonna be like that, it’s best to just get the rejection over with. Get the worst out. That’s my motto.”

Mickey bites his lip.

“That’s a shitty motto,” Ian says.

Rex shrugs. “I’m gettin’ desperate. I’ve only been laid twice since I got outta the joint. At least you guys have each other.”

“Oh,” Ian says. “We haven’t—”

Mickey kicks him under the table.

“Oh hell,” Rex says. “I thought for sure by now.”

“Mind your business,” Mickey grunts, not looking up.

“Sounds like you need it, Milkovich,” Rex says. “Have you? SInce you’ve been out?”

Ian swallows. They haven’t talked about it. He knows he has no claim on him, but he still hopes the answer is no.

Mickey sighs and slams his book shut. “Worry about yourself,” he says. “Leave me alone. Not in the mood.”

Ian stares at him. Mickey glances over, then away.

“Need to get to work,” MIckey says. “They want me early today.” He grabs his coat and pulls out his cigarettes.

“Hey,” Ian says quickly. “Can I walk out with you?”

Mickey purses his lips. “Sure.”

The walk outside is tense. Mickey lights the cigarette before they are even out the door.

“Mickey,” Ian says. He’s about to reach for the cigarette, but Mickey taps out one for him and passes it over with the lighter. The lighter Ian gave him. “What did I do?”

Mickey blows out smoke and shifts his jaw. “Nothin. Just don’t like talking about my house. Too much went down there.”

Ian lights his cigarette. “Like what?”

Mickey looks down at his feet. “Bad shit. You don’t wanna hear about it.”

“Try me,” Ian says quietly.

Mickey grunts. “Like me gettin’ pistol whipped by my dad when he found out I’m gay. Cut my head open.” Mickey touches the scar on his forehead. “That’s what this is.”

Ian breathes in sharply. Ian can still feel the memory of the scar’s texture on his fingertips.

“He did it before,” Ian says slowly. “Didn’t he.” He remembers Mickey talking about being pistol whipped the first time he came into the library. He was saying it so casually, like it was an everyday occurrence.

“Yeah. It wasn’t the first time,” Mickey continues. “But it was the worst time. Beat me almost to death. Him and my cousin. I’d told my cousin I was gay after he saw me with a kid from the neighborhood. Didn’t catch us fucking or nothin’ like that. We were just hanging out together. But everyone knew that kid was gay. And yeah, we were fucking, but we were careful about being seen together. So careful. But not that day. I told my cousin the truth and made him swear he wouldn’t tell anyone. He seemed to take it okay. But the next day I got a beat down from him and my dad. He told my dad everything.”

“Jesus.” Ian’s eyes are wide. He doesn’t know what to say. Only one word. “Sorry.”

Ian takes a step closer, but Mickey backs away. “Don’t touch me right now,” he says.

Ian takes two steps back.

Mickey breathes out sharply. “Then he whipped me with his belt like he did when I was a kid. His belt on my bare ass. Told me if I liked it up the ass I needed to get it beat. Did it so hard. He said he wouldn’t stop until I was crying like the sissy I was. Said I’d remember it the rest of my life. I never cried when he beat me. Not even as a kid. But I cried that day. He made sure of it. Fuckin’ bawled. And then he made fun of me for it.”

“Oh my god, Mick,” Ian breathes.

“My cousin called me names and punched me in the stomach. I puked. Then he punched me in the head. I don’t remember anything after that. Got knocked out. Woke up and my sister Mandy was leaning over me, hysterical. Dad and my cousin were gone. I hurt everywhere. Tried to stand up. Blood all over my fuckin’ face. I threw up again all over the floor. Now I know it was a concussion. Coulda died just from that.” Mickey shrugs. “My sister said I needed to go to the hospital. But I didn’t. Just tried to glue my head shut. Didn’t do a great job I guess.”

“What happened to your dad?” God, he wants to touch him, feel that his body is okay, not beaten. But Mickey doesn’t want that. He doesn’t blame him. “Did he go to jail?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Not for that shit. I hid out until I looked halfway normal again, but I could barely move. I was fucked up for a while. Headaches all the time. Mandy took care of me best she could. But I couldn’t walk right for weeks. I stayed out of my dad’s way. I was scared to shower. Scared to let my guard down. An’ I didn’t want to look at myself. My body. Felt like it belonged to a stranger. Wouldn’t even wash my face. Smelled like cow shit.”

Mickey scans the street. His eyes look wet when he turns back. He sniffs hard and wipes at his nose. “Dad got arrested for breaking probation. Got into a fight at a bar. He went back in, and that’s when a guy killed him. I was so fucking happy. He’d been beating me for years. My whole fuckin’ life.”

“Mickey. I’m—”

Mickey looks down. “'Spare the fireplace poker spoil the child'—that's the kind of shit my dad always said. I always got the worst of it. Fuckin’ hated me.”

Ian shakes his head. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t look up.

It’s quiet. Ian doesn’t know what to say. He takes a tentative step forward. Mickey looks at him, eyes shining.

“It fucked me up,” Mickey says.

Ian nods. “I know,” he says softly.

Mickey blinks, and the tears threaten to fall. “I’ll probably always be fucked up. You should know that.”

Ian doesn’t know what to say. He takes another step forward.

“And sometimes I get nightmares,” Mickey says. He sniffs hard. “And sometimes I don’t like getting touched. I don’t want other people touchin’ me.”

Ian nods. “Okay.”

“But you,” Mickey pauses, swallows. He clears his throat. “You can touch me. Just not there. Not my scars like that.”

Ian nods. “I won’t.”

“Maybe someday it won’t bother me,” Mickey says. He throws the cigarette down. “But for now it does.”

Ian nods. “I’m sorry you had to grow up like that,” Ian says. “No one should.”

Mickey grinds his hands into his eyes. “It’s fine.”

Ian’s voice is firm. “No. It’s not.”

Mickey breathes deeply. “Over now.”

But it’s not over. The scars are there. The pain is there.

Mickey takes a step forward and slowly leans against Ian. Mickey doesn’t reach out to hold him. He just leans carefully, cautiously, like he’s afraid Ian might back away.

“You can now,” Mickey says quietly. “Want you to.”

Ian wraps his arms around him and holds him tight.

“This is my dark shit,” Mickey says into Ian’s chest. “This is how come I can’t get close to anyone.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ian says.

*

It’s late. He doesn’t recognize the number at first, so he doesn’t plan to pick it up. Then he thinks it’s possible it’s Patsy’s, like maybe Mickey’s phone is dead and he wants to talk to him? Okay. Yes.

“Hello?” He can hear the hopefulness.

“You have a lot of nerve giving someone my number.”

“What? Who is this?” The voice is familiar, but Ian can’t place it.

The man laughs. “It’s your old boss. From The Fairy Tail?”

“I didn’t give anyone your phone number,” Ian says. “I don’t even have your phone number.”

“Well someone gave this woman my phone number,” he says, annoyed. “She called asking about you. Wanted to know what kind of bartender you were.”

His stomach feels like it’s somewhere on the floor. ‘What did you say? What did you tell her?”

“What do you think I said? That you spent more time sucking cock? Jesus Christ, Curtis.”

“Ian,” he says firmly. “You know my real name. Don't call me that.”

The boss laughs. “Oh, honey. Don’t get precious.”

Ian tries to swallow but can’t quite get it down. “Please,” he says. “What did you say? I really need this job.”

“Relax,” he says with another laugh. “I’m messing with you! I said you were a good bartender at The White Swallow and here at The Fairy Tail.”

He can’t breathe. “You said I worked at The Fairy Tail?”

“Well, yeah,” the boss says. “And she sounded surprised. You leave that off your resume?”

“Um,” Ian says, but he can’t say anything else.

“Speechless, huh? That’s new. Used to not be able to shut you up. Never met anyone who talked as fast and as much as you.”

Pressured speech. Mania. Not being able to shut his fucking mouth. Talking, talking, always talking, jumping from one subject to another so fast the other person had to work hard to try and track it. It was always easier under the lights, the music. The coke made it worse.

The boss sighs. “So what I’m saying, Curtis, is you don’t have to worry. But don’t give my number out to anyone else.”

“I didn’t have your number,” he says again. “Someone at the club must have given it out.”

“Still,” the boss says. He takes a deep breath. “Even after all that happened with the car, the stuff, the arrest, blah blah blah. All of that doesn’t matter. You were good at what you did. All of what you did. I remember that too. Very well. Very talented. Exquisite.”

Ian can’t breathe. “Stop it.”

His voice is a dark purr. “If this job doesn’t work out, you can always come back. You’d be welcomed with open arms.”

Ian sets his jaw. His fingers are holding his phone so tightly. “I’m never coming back,” he says.

The boss laughs. “That’s what they all say.”

Ian is still holding the phone silently minutes later, staring straight at the wall. The boss hung up a while ago, but he’s trying hard to focus his breathing. Breathe. Breathe.

Notebook.

No. Just breathe.

He tosses the phone down and covers his face.

“Fuck,” he says.

Jane. Paul. They know that he lied about working there.

He needs to explain. Now.

His feet fly down the stairs. He’s out the door before he realizes he’s not wearing a coat. Fuck it. It’s close by. He needs to hurry.

It’s all lit up inside, and he can see Paul and Jane standing at the bar. He tries the door, but it’s locked. He waves. They look at each other, and Jane makes her way over.

She opens the door, face confused. “Ian?”

He shakes his head fast. “I can explain.”

She looks over her shoulder at Paul, who shrugs. “Explain what?”

Oh shit.

“Um,” Ian says. “The Fairy Tail.” He fights a shiver.

“Where’s your coat?” Paul walks over. Squinting. Concerned.

Ian shakes his head.

“Come in,” Jane says slowly. “Let’s get you warmed up. Do you want a beer? Did you like one from the other night?”

He comes in, hit with warmth. A beer. He says the only name he remembers. “I liked that Pilsner.”

“Okay,” she says. “One Pilsner coming up.”

Ian watches the beer pour.

Paul said it should be shut down. He knows. He knows everything.

“I worked at The Fairy Tail,” Ian says finally. “And I didn’t want to tell you.”

Jane nods slowly. She passes him the beer. Ian takes a long drink.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. “I should have said something.”

Paul sits down next to him at the bar.

It’s quiet. Ian stares at his glass.

“My husband worked there,” Paul says suddenly. “He was a bartender too. This is a while ago though. 2012, 2013, something like that. Before your time. But I heard some stories.”

Ian nods.

“Hey,” Paul says to Jane. “I’ll take a Pilsner too.”

Jane nods and pours two more. She takes a drink of one and passes the other over before coming to sit on Ian’s other side.

“My husband didn’t bartend at The Fairy Tale very long either,” Paul says gently. “He started working the floor pretty quickly. And then, well. You know how it goes”

Ian clears his throat. He doesn’t look up.

Paul twists in his seat. “He told me that place has a way of pulling you in deeper. Gets complicated.”

Ian nods. He sneaks a glance at Jane, who looks straight at him. Worried. Curious.

“So you don’t have to worry about it, is what I’m saying,” Paul says. “Whatever happened there.”

Ian nods again. He looks up at Paul and over at Jane, then Paul again. “It was a weird time in my life,” he says with a tilt of the head. “It’s behind me. I will never go back there.”

Paul nods. He takes a long drink of his beer. “So,” Paul begins carefully. “Just to be clear, you don’t, like, still—”

“No.” Ian’s voice is louder than he intends. “I don’t.”

“I mean,” Jane says, and she looks pointedly at Paul. “It’s not really our business if you do, right? You’re an adult and you can make a living however you want. But just not here, okay?”

Ian shakes his head hard. “I’m serious. I don’t do that anymore,” he says. “It’s over. You have nothing to worry about.”

She’s looking at him with kind eyes. Soft acceptance. “Okay,” she says.

Ian drinks the last of his beer. Boy, that was fast.

“I have to get home,” Ian says quietly. “I need to see my...my boyfriend.” It’s not the right word, but it feels true in his mouth. Paul and Jane stand up and let him wiggle out of his seat. Ian looks at both of them, one at a time. “Thank you,” he says. His voice is clear and weighted. “Thanks a lot.”

Paul extends a hand, and Ian shakes it.

The cold is bracing, and Ian walks fast. His hands are cold around his phone, and he voice-commands.

“Call Mickey.”

It rings three times. He’s probably washing dishes. He’s probably still working. Probably.

“Hey,” Mickey says. Ian can hear clattering. ‘What’s up? You okay?”

Ian’s chin shakes. Fuck it’s cold. “I need to see you.”

“Not a good time,” MIckey says. There’s a bang. “I’m almost done though.”

“Come over,” Ian says. “We don’t have to do anything. Just please, come over.”

There’s another clatter.

“I can leave,” Mickey says. “I’ll leave in 20.”

*

Ian swings the door open and steps back to let Mickey into the apartment. “Thanks for coming.” He takes another step backward. He lets out a deep breath.

Mickey squints at him. “You okay? You seem—”

He’s not ready to step forward just yet. He swallows, blinks his eyes fast. “I just had to tell the people at The Earl about The Fairy Tail. They know. They know about what I did there. They know about me. That I’m not some fancy...I don’t know. That I’m not like them.”

“Hey,” Mickey says. “There’s nothin’ fucking wrong about who you are. Did they say somethin’?”

Ian shakes his head slowly. “But I didn’t want them to know. I don’t want anyone to know. I just want it all behind me.”

Mickey takes a tentative step forward. “You’re workin’ on that. Putting it behind you.”

Ian nods, and takes a small step forward, too. They can almost touch. But they don’t. Not yet.

Ian forces a little laugh. “How am I doing so far?”

“Hey,” Mickey says gently. “You’re doin’ great. Don’t do that.”

Ian holds his breath. He reaches out and brushes Mickey’s hand. Rough knuckles, soft palm. “You’re helping me,” he says. “I trust you with this. With me like this.”

Mickey’s fingers catch Ian’s, hold just barely, just enough. “I trust you, too. With me like this.”

Ian’s voice is almost a whisper. “Thanks for telling me all that today,” he says. “About your dad. You didn’t have to, but you did. That was big of you. Brave.”

Mickey swallows. “Thanks.” His fingers falter, just a little. He shifts his feet.

“Don’t leave,” Ian says quietly. He fights the urge to hold his fingers tighter.

Mickey looks deep into his eyes. “I’m not.”

“Promise?”

Mickey reaches for him without a word. His lips are perfect, and they grasp Ian’s like they were hands holding, and when he licks into his mouth, Ian reaches out to hold his waist.

Mickey breaks away slightly to pull off his coat, and then he’s back on Ian’s lips. His hands cup his face as he pulls him closer. Mickey kisses him softly, thoroughly, lips strong and sure. Ian matches his intensity, and deepens it. A hunger. A question. An answer.

“I want you,” Ian whispers.

“Want you, too,” Mickey says. “So fucking bad.”

Ian pulls Mickey so close. His fingers slide beneath his shirt, skating up Mickey’s back and digging in deeper, just shy of a scratch. Mickey reads him, sliding it off fast, pulling Ian’s off, too.

Ian cups Mickey’s face. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to...have sex.”

“That’s okay,” Mickey says quietly.

“But I still wanna touch you. See you,” Ian says, glancing down. “And I’m ready for that.”

Mickey’s breathing faster. “Me too.”

“Can I?” Ian’s fingers pause at the buckle.

MIckey nods. He bites his lip and releases. “Yeah,” he says. “Holy shit.”

Ian gives a little hum, and slowly starts to work the buckle, the sound of the clinking metal making his senses buzz. So close. He’s so close to feeling him. Really feeling him.

Zipper. There. There it is. Ian slides the zipper down. Mickey moans into his mouth.

“Take them off,” Ian whispers. “Let’s get on the bed.”

They do. They get on the bed. Mickey’s fingers drop and he starts to fumble with his jeans, yanking them off. He leans back and shifts further up the bed, letting his head hit the pillow.

Ian crawls up to lie beside him. Ian leans over him, staring down at Mickey’s face, his broad chest, letting his eyes slide down to his stomach, hips. Mickey’s legs begin to part, and Ian’s hand slides up the front of his thigh, stopping just short of the edge of his boxers, where Mickey waits for him, hard.

“I wanna see you,” Ian says. “That okay?”

“Yeah,” Mickey groans. “Fuck. Please.”

Ian drags his fingers up over Mickey’s dick before he grips the waistband and pulls them down.

Thick. Uncut.

Fucking perfect.

“Oh god,” Ian sighs. “Mickey. You look so good.”

When he takes him in his hand, Mickey moans.

“I’ll take care of you,” Ian whispers, gently stroking him, foreskin sliding, the head hidden and revealed. Ian breathes harder. “I’ve got you.”

Their kiss is slow and deep, and Ian’s hand pulls him at the same pace. He can feel Mickey leaking precome on his fingers, and slicks it against him. God, he wants to taste it. But not yet. Not tonight.

“Fuck,” Mickey gasps, eyes closed. “Feels so fucking good.”

Slower, slower. “Can you take it slow like this?”

“I—I don’t know." Mickey shudders. "Jesus, that's good. Thought about this so much."

Ian looks down at Mickey’s powerful thighs, the curve of his hips. He swallows hard. “Do you wanna touch me?”

Mickey opens his eyes, blinks at him. “You sure?”

“Uh-huh,” Ian says. He drops his hand and leans back. “I’m sure. Do you want to?”

“Yes. Fuck. Yes. C’mere.” Mickey starts to pull at Ian’s pants. “Please. C’mon, get these off.”

Ian sighs when Mickey’s rough fingers pull him free. He groans as Mickey begins to stroke him. Harder. He moans and reaches for Mickey’s beautiful dick again.

“Holy shit, Ian,” Mickey breathes, eyes glazed. “This fucking cock.”

Ian huffs out a breathy laugh.

Mickey swallows pointedly. “Fucking love it. It’s gonna feel…” He lets his voice trail off, but sounds hopeful.

“Soon,” Ian says, and he closes his eyes as Mickey gives him a particularly good stroke. “I wanna do it soon.”

Mickey groans. “Me too.”

“Soon,” Ian says again. “Fuck, you’re so good to me. So patient. I want you, Mick.”

“You got me,” Mickey says gently.

Mickey’s thumb swipes over Ian’s tip, and Ian’s jaw drops. He opens his eyes and looks down. Mickey’s foreskin is sliding with a slick sound, his cockhead wet and perfect. It’s so hard, so thick in his hand. He feels Mickey’s fist moving him along, pulling him closer to the orgasm already rising, one that has waited years to arrive. His lips meet Mickey’s in a groan, a parting of mouths to breathe heavy and hot, the breath mixing together, a whine in Mickey’s throat.

Mickey breaks away. Gasps. “Make me beg.”

“Holy shit.” Ian’s breath shakes. “Really?”

MIckey nods fast. “Thought about it when I jacked off.”

“Mickey, fuck.” Ian is still breathless, still stroking Mickey slowly. “Ask me.”

“‘Wanna come,” Mickey gasps. “Jesus, wanna come so bad. Shit. So close. Please.”

Ian licks Mickey’s lip, sucks it into his mouth before kissing him hard. Mickey’s hand feels so good. “No. You can’t come yet.” Ian’s hand slows even more. Slower. “Breathe. Take a deep breath.”

“I can’t,” Mickey says, opening his eyes. “I can’t—”

“You can. You can do it,” Ian whispers. “I wanna come with you. Just hold on.” Ian’s hand begins to ease up on Mickey, but then he tugs lightly at his foreskin. Mickey shudders.

“Breathe,” Ian says. He gives his foreskin another tug. “There you go. Breathe.”

“I wanna come,” Mickey whines. “If you keep doin’ that I’m gonna come.”

“Not yet,” Ian says, and kisses him, tongues wet and curling.

“Ian,” Mickey gasps, breaking away. “Fuck.”

Ian groans. “I need to be wetter. Get me wetter. Please.”

“Open,” Mickey says with a growl. His fingers find Ian’s lips, and Ian sighs as they slide into his mouth. He moans at the taste of his precome on Mickey’s fingers. Circles around them. Sucks. Reaches back and licks up and down Mickey’s palm. Mickey’s breath speeds up, and when his hand returns to Ian’s cock, it’s wet enough to slide better.

“This fucking cock,” Mickey groans, head rocking back and then forward, eyes full on him, jaw dropping. “Jesus. So fucking big.”

“Next time I’ll be ready for your mouth,” Ian pants. “Wanna watch you.”

“Fucking love sucking cock,” Mickey growls. God. He’s beautiful. “Want it in my fucking throat. Wanna take you deep like that. Show you. Taste you.” His eyes roll back. “Fuck. Need to come.”

“Not yet,” Ian pants. He groans as Mickey’s hand speeds up. “Oh god, that feels so fucking good.” He feels his orgasm about to crest. He tries to breathe it back.

“Please, Ian. Please.”

Ian’s eyes shut tight. He grips Mickey tighter. Fuck. Fuck.

“Wait,” Ian groans. He’s so fucking close, sliding in Mickey’s hand. “Fuck, I’m almost there.”

Tighter.

“Yeah,” Mickey gasps. “Let it out.”

“Mickey,” Ian cries.

Mickey’s panting, groaning. “Can I come?”

Ian can barely see. It’s happening. It’s going to happen. Now.

“Ian! Shit. Gotta. Oh fuck. Can I come?”

“Come,” Ian whispers against his lips. “Come with me.”

Mickey lets go fast. Clenched jaw. Furrowed brow. A look of almost pain, followed by a rough, satisfied moan, jaw dropped, head tilted back. Mickey’s hand is still moving, doesn’t lose it’s pace, and suddenly Ian’s orgasm crashes into him. Wave after wave, his eyes closed against the pleasure, letting it wash over him, gasping as he comes back up for air.

All his limbs buzz. His eyes blink open and that’s when he sees it all.

It’s so wet and sticky everywhere. Fingers. Hands. Wrists. Bodies.

Ian’s laugh is weak, but almost proud. He reaches over for their boxers, passes one over, and they start to wipe up.

“What a fucking mess,” Ian laughs.

“Like the mess,” Mickey says. “Turns me on. Surprised I didn’t beg to be covered in it all over my fuckin’ body. Thought a lot about that, too.”

“Mmm,” Ian says, leaning down for a quick kiss. “Good to know.”

Mickey throws the damp boxers to the floor. Ian’s back finds the mattress. Mickey leans over, looking down at him.

“Thank you,” Ian says. “I haven’t—I mean, that’s the first time in...” He shakes his head. He doesn’t finish at first. He opens his mouth again. "I just can’t believe it actually happened.”

Mickey nods. “Feel okay about it?”

Ian smiles. “Oh, hell yeah.” He pulls him down for a kiss. “So fucking okay.” His smile fades, just a little, because there's a tender pull in his stomach, in the corners of his eyes. “Mickey, I trust you.”

Mickey nods. “I trust you, too.”

Because Ian does, and when he rises to go get cleaned up, he looks back at Mickey, sated. Mickey is sitting up now, looking at Ian’s naked body, looking straight at him. He can see all of him, and Ian doesn’t mind. He likes it even. It’s a new feeling, being naked and vulnerable, comfortable and safe, looking at someone he cares about. It’s different, and welcome, and he never wants it to go away.

“Stay over,” Ian says quietly. “I wanna hold onto you.”

Mickey nods. “I’d like that.”

In the bathroom, Ian finishes wiping himself up. He tosses the washcloth on the bathtub ledge, gets another washcloth for Mickey, and looks in the mirror. He sees his eyes, bright and open. He looks at his face, turning it one way and the other way.

“Come back to bed,” Mickey calls out. “Miss ya.”

He smiles at himself. He’s happy. That’s what it is. Happy.

Mickey takes the washcloth from his hand and starts to rub it against himself.

There’s a movement near the foot of the bed. Bill.

“Here’s my cat,” Ian says.

“Huh? Where was it?”

Ian scoops her up. “Probably was under the bed. She can be skittish.”

Mickey chuckles.

“What?” Ian smiles.

“You naked holding a cat,” Mickey says. “Just funny.”

Ian sets Bill down on the bed. Mickey stares at her before tentatively reaching out a fingertip, sliding it along the top of her head. He pulls back, a slight smile on his face.

“Gotta take my meds,” Ian says. “Hang on.” He walks into the kitchen, picks the bottles up one by one and shakes them into his palm, washing them down with a glass of water left on the counter.

Back at the bed, Mickey is petting Bill again with one careful fingertip. “How many of those pills do you have to take?”

“Four,” Ian says, and Bill jumps back off the bed. When Ian slides under the covers, he realizes Mickey is still naked. Good. Ian isn’t ready for clothes. Ian raises an arm up and Mickey finds a place at his side without even asking. “I mean, two in the morning and four at night. So six, I guess.”

“An’ they work okay?” Mickey’s head rests in the crook of his shoulder perfectly.

“I have it under control,” Ian says quietly.

Mickey drags his fingers over Ian’s chest. He hums.

Ian swallows back the lump in his throat. “I haven’t been this happy in a long time.”

Mickey slides his head over to meet Ian’s eye. “I’m like that too,” he says. “Haven’t felt like this in…” He looks down. He drags his fingers lightly through the hair on Ian’s chest. “Don’t know how to finish that I guess.”

Ian lowers his lips to Mickey’s head, a short kiss. Then a thought occurs to him. He laughs into Mickey’s hair.

“What’s so funny?”

Ian grins. “We’re gonna need different boxers tomorrow,” he says. ‘You’ll have to borrow some. And maybe a shirt so you’re not wearing the same clothes. Otherwise Rex will know.”

Mickey laughs too. He rolls back, just slightly, just so he can look Ian straight in the face. “Let him know.”

Ian breathes in hard. “Yeah?”

Mickey looks deep into his eyes. “Yeah. Let everyone know.”

Ian doesn’t look away. “I called you my boyfriend today.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “To who?”

“Guys at The Earl,” he says. “After we talked about Fairy Tail. Said I needed to get back to see my boyfriend.”

Mickey chews his lip. “Never been called a boyfriend.”

Ian slides his thumb against Mickey’s chin. His voice is soft. “Not ever?”

Mickey swallows. He says it with his eyes. Never.

Ian takes a deep breath. “I know it’s soon,” he says quietly. “I know it hasn’t been very long. And I know I’m probably not—I mean I’m not going very fast in other ways. And I know I’m kind of, like, full of problems. But I think about you all the time. And I—”

“Call me that,” Mickey says, just as quietly. “I think I’d like it. Bein’ called that.”

Ian’s hand comes up to rest over Mickey’s, pressing it closer to his chest, his heart. The apartment is a little cold, but they are warm. They are sharing a sheet. They are sharing a blanket and sharing breath when their lips meet again. They are naked, and they are patient, and they have so much time.

Chapter Text

Ian wakes first. Meds. It’s the first thing he thinks of, just like always. But this is not an ordinary day.

When he rolls over on his side, he sees Mickey. He watches Mickey’s back expanding with his slow, sleeping breaths. Ian scoots a little closer.

Meds can wait.

He wants to touch Mickey so badly, but needs to wake him up first. “Mickey,” he whispers. His hands ache to reach for him, but he doesn’t. “Mickey.”

Mickey doesn’t stir.

“Mick,” he says again, a little louder. Ian smiles. “Wake up.”

Mickey breathes in with a hum. He reaches an arm back, hooks it around Ian’s neck, and pulls him closer. “Hey.”

Ian meets Mickey’s neck, lets his lips slide against the nape. Mickey’s fingers grip him tighter. Ian presses in, kisses him slowly.

“Mmm,” Mickey hums. “Morning.”

Ian slides his hand down Mickey’s side. He doesn’t reach for his dick. He doesn’t grab. He just slides his fingers over his bare hip and then lets go. Mickey sighs, and presses back. Ian’s dick twitches with interest. Mickey’s ass is close, just shy of touching him. He fights the urge to press forward, meet him.

Ian kisses his neck harder, the slightest suck. His breath is wet when he speaks against his skin. “I dreamed about you.”

Mickey breathes deeply and turns over with a smile. “Yeah?”

“We were in the ocean. Naked in the ocean.”

Mickey chuckles. “Sounds good to me.”

“You were swimming.” Ian says softly. “And you were swimming away and I couldn’t catch up.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything at first. Suddenly he reaches for Ian’s cheek. Ian breathes in as Mickey’s hand settles there, his thumb brushing Ian’s lip. “That wouldn’t happen,” Mickey says quietly. “I wouldn’t swim away.”

Ian smiles slowly, and Mickey’s thumb traces it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly, then grins wide. “I can’t swim.”

Ian laughs. He closes his eyes. When he opens them, Mickey is still there. Still sleepy and beautiful.

“Look good,” Mickey says, his eyes dancing over Ian’s face. He gives Ian’s lip one last swipe with his thumb, then slides his hand down to Ian’s shoulder. “Like you in the morning.”

Ian looks at Mickey’s lips. “Like you too.”

Mickey slowly leans in, his lips brushing Ian’s before pressing harder. Ian guides Mickey closer. Their hips are just shy of meeting, a tiny distance.

“Wanna touch you,” Mickey says, eyes glancing down at the sheet, hand sliding down Ian’s chest.

Ian closes his eyes and breathes out a slow breath. “Touch me,” he whispers.

He isn’t expecting Mickey to roll on top of him, but when he does, Ian parts his legs to give him room. Their cocks press together as Mickey’s lips meet Ian’s in a hungry kiss. Mickey bends back, just a little, just enough, and slides his mouth over Ian’s chest, a small lick at a nipple, a kiss pressed on his collarbone.

“Mick,” Ian breathes. He slides his fingers into Mickey’s hair. His eyes roll back as Mickey mouths at his neck, another small suck, and Ian’s head tilts back to give him more room. Fuck.

“Wanna get you in my mouth,” Mickey whispers against his skin.

Ian gasps. “Really?” His eyes fight to focus on the ceiling.

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly. “Can I? You okay with that?” Mickey’s lips return to kiss his neck harder. Harder. A scrape of teeth. Ian’s fingers tighten against Mickey’s hair, a slight pull.

“Yes,” Ian breathes.

“Been thinking about you.” Mickey whispers in his ear. “Been thinking about how deep I can take this fucking cock.”

Ian whines. An actual whine. “Bet you can take it so deep.”

Mickey’s eyes are hooded and hungry when Ian meets them. “Damn right.”

Ian’s eyes widen as Mickey’s hand slides down to stroke him, get him harder. “Mickey, I want this.”

Stroking. Stroking. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, hearing the desperation in his voice, a sound that surprises him, but not at the same time. God, it’s been so long. “Mickey, fuck. Feels so good.”

Mickey kisses him. Kisses him deeply, completely. His fist moves and moves.

Ian moans. “Leaking for you.”

Mickey’s thumb swipes over Ian’s tip. Mickey licks teasingly into Ian’s mouth. “Wanna fuckin’ taste it. Love it. Love suckin’ cock.”

Ian feels woozy, so turned on so fast. He barely recognizes his voice, so ragged. “Show me.”

Mickey pulls the sheet back. He slides down, kissing Ian’s chest, his stomach, brushing his cheek against the hair that leads down to Ian’s dick.

Ian takes a deep breath, holds it.

When Mickey’s mouth closes around him, Ian exhales into a moan. Mickey’s mouth is exactly what Ian dreamed of. Patient and wanting, wet and welcoming. Mickey groans around him, and Ian can feel it. He can feel all of it. Mickey slides up and sucks the tip.

Mickey breaks away, but stays so close his lips are still against him. “Taste so fuckin’ good,” he says, voice low. He slowly licks up Ian’s long length.

“Fuck,” Ian breathes.

Mickey wasn’t lying. He pulls Ian deep. His mouth slides lower, throat soft and open. Ian’s breath is shaky and his eyes shut tight. When he opens them again, he looks down, seeing Mickey blink up at him, mouth so full. Mickey’s fingers tighten on Ian’s hip as he slides down even lower.

Shit. Shit. Mickey’s mouth is so wet, so full and so stretched. This is deeper than anyone has ever taken him. This is perfect.

Mickey slides up again, breaking away, fist coming up to pull him faster.

“Come in my mouth,” Mickey pants. “Shoot down my fuckin’ throat.”

“Are you sure?” Ian is shaking. God, he wants to. “I’m—there’s usually a lot, and it comes out fast.

MIckey nods, eyes closing and then opening. “I know,” he says. “Saw last night. Want it all.”

Ian nods fast. “Okay,” he pants. He lets a little sound go, something like a whimper. He looks down.

“Yeah, watch me,” Mickey growls. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Ian moans when Mickey’s tongue slides up him again, and then Mickey is sucking him, just the tip, then down up and around and fuck because Ian can feel his orgasm approaching.

“Mickey,” Ian whines. He starts to babble as Mickey slides up, just a little, and sucks him harder. “Shit. I’m gonna come. Fuck, so good. Wanna—I’m gonna.”

Mickey squeezes Ian’s hip. He must taste him growing stronger. Shit.

Fuck.

When he lets go, Mickey’s mouth tweaks, just slightly, almost surprised. Ian cries out, feeling himself unload into Mickey’s soft mouth, feeling the way Mickey hurries to catch up, swallow it all. And Mickey does. He takes it all, just like he said he would.

“Oh god, Mick.” Ian is panting, a small shake in his voice.

Mickey sucks gently one last time before pulling off, breathing hard. He licks his lips.

Mickey grins. “You okay?”

Ian swipes a hand over his face. “Oh, god, yes. That was amazing.”

Mickey slides up his body, his lips hovering over Ian’s, a question.

“Yeah,” Ian whispers. “C’mere.”

Ian pulls him down flush with his body. Their kiss is lazy, but deep, and Ian can taste himself on Mickey’s tongue. It’s sexy and primal, and Ian fucking likes it.

He can feel Mickey’s dick against his thigh. He slowly raises his fingers to slide against Mickey’s ass. Ian’s palm slides over the cheek, pulling just slightly. “This okay?”

Mickey groans. “Jesus. Yes.” He slides his leg up, opening his legs, wanting.

Ian hums, traces his crack, just slightly. “Greedy,” he teases.

Mickey closes his eyes and huffs out a laugh. “You would be too if you liked it up the ass as much as I do.”

“Do you only bottom?”

Mickey pauses, just a little.

“Did I say something wrong?” Ian’s hand starts to slide off, but Mickey’s hand reaches for it and pulls him back.

Mickey shakes his head. “I fuckin’ love it,” he says. “But it’s been a while. Never took it while I was in prison. Only topped. Two years without something other than my own fingers in my ass is a long fucking time.”

Ian cups him, slides his fingers lower, fingertips brushing the top of his thigh. “What about after?”

“Nah.”

Ian swallows. “I mean, have you? You know. Since you got out?”

“Fucked someone?”

“Yeah,” Ian says.

Mickey sighs heavily. “Gotten a blowie a couple times, but that’s it.”

Ian feels a little rush of something between relief and a deep feeling to possess Mickey. He gives Mickey’s ass a small squeeze, another slight pull.

“But I want you to top me,” Mickey says. “When you want to, I want you to.”

Ian pulls him tighter. God, Mickey’s hard. His ass is perfect. He isn’t ready yet, but he wants to be.

Ian flips Mickey over, and when Mickey’s back hits the mattress, Ian crashes his lips against his, and it’s all tongues and hands, Mickey’s fingers firm on the back of Ian’s neck, trying to pull him closer. But Ian is already as close as he can be.

“Open your legs wider,” he growls against Mickey’s mouth. Mickey hitches a leg up to the side. “Like you’re getting ready for me.”

“Fuck,” Mickey’s eyes are hooded. He licks his lips.

Ian backs off of him, just enough. When his fingers wrap around Mickey’s dick, Mickey moans.

“Wider,” Ian pants, and Mickey moves his other leg up. Ian adjusts his grip and pulls him fast. Ian finds his ear. “Slower?” Ian nips his earlobe.

“N-no. Perfect.” Mickey pants and licks his lips again. His eyes fight to focus. “Ian, fuck.”

“You’re perfect,” Ian murmurs. He kisses Mickey’s neck and tries not to feel embarrassed by what he just said.

“Ian,” Mickey gasps, eyes widening.

“Just relax,” Ian says. Pulling. Pulling. “I’ve got you. I’m taking care of you.”

When Mickey comes, he gasps. He tries to say something, but Ian can’t quite catch it. Something warm, a surprise.

“I’ll always take care of you,” Ian says, voice quieter. He means it. But Mickey doesn’t say anything back.

*

The line at the pharmacy is long, but it gives Ian time to think.

Mickey couldn’t stay. He had to go to Patsy’s. It’s just as well, because Ian has some training at The Earl.

Mickey didn’t say much before he left. Ian kept thinking about the things he said. You’re Perfect. I’ll always take care of you. He meant them. He wouldn’t want to apologize for something he really meant, something shining and good. It’s been so long since he’s had something good.

He thinks about Malcolm X, about Mr. Walker. Why hasn’t he heard anything about the program? Ian tried to go to his office, but he wasn’t there. He saw the reading teacher eyeing him in the hallway, but she didn’t even respond to his greeting.

He needs this job. He needs this time to work on his math for the GED. Mickey needs the structure of working on his reading. And Rex needs…Ian isn’t sure what Rex really needs. He thinks he needs the company more than anything. Somewhere to go.

The line moves along, just a little bit, but enough.

His mouth. Mickey had him in his mouth. The thought makes his stomach do a tiny flip. And then he had Mickey in his hand, Mickey’s legs wide open, spread out, so sexy. Mickey is so sexy, and although he thinks Mickey would be embarrassed to hear it, he is beautiful.

Ian eyes the glass case beside the counter. All sorts of boxes of condoms and bottles of lube.

Does he have condoms? Maybe. Maybe? Maybe not. He seems to remember throwing them out, disgusted at the idea of having sex at all.

But then.

But then he met Mickey. What was it that day? That first day when he wanted him, when he thought about it? It was so fast and so certain. He felt like he could. That he wanted to.

He still wants to.

Ian looks at the boxes of condoms again. They have the black and gold box he needs. Not every store does. Should he get some? I mean, they’re here. Should he?

He still hasn’t decided when he reaches the counter. The pharmacy tech is a bit flustered. “Name?”

“Uh, Gallagher? Ian.”

She types fast on the computer. “You have four ready. One sec.’

They have a large pack of them too. The condoms. Not every place has a large pack.

His phone buzzes. He glances down quickly at the text message..

Been thinking about you.

He looks at the case. Are his cheeks heating up? Embarrassment or excitement? He’s not sure which.

Ian reaches in and grabs the box. The big box. The woman comes back and starts scanning his meds.

He takes a deep breath. “I’ll get some of these, too.” He pushes the box toward the woman. He glances back. Wait. He might need more lube. Okay. Yeah.

“And this too,” he says quietly, dropping the bottle on the counter. “Thanks.”

He looks over his shoulder as he prepares to pay. No one is watching him. They are all on their phones. No one can tell. He feels shy. It’s been a long time since he bought them. He feels like it shows.

He smiles as he shoves the paper bag in his backpack. He walks into the cold and heads toward The Earl.

*

He’s surprised he’s the only one there, but like he said, even when he’s on time he feels late.

“You should suggest Motor Row,” Jane says, writing something down on a clipboard.

“What’s that?”

“A brewery. They're on the south side. You could talk to people about how you’re from there. People will love a bartender who is a little rough around the edges.”

Ian laughs as he writes down the order of the taps on a piece of paper. “What, not a pussy like west siders my age?” Then he freezes. His smile fades and he glances over. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I shouldn’t have.”

Jane laughs and waves him off. “It’s fine,” she says. “You’re just proving my point. Like I said, a little rough around the edges. But maybe don’t use the word 'pussy'?”

He can feel his cheeks get hot. “Yeah, definitely not.” He takes a breath and goes back to writing down the names. Change the subject. Change the subject as fast as possible.“So you said we’re having a soft launch? What does that mean exactly?”

“It’s like an invite-only opening night. We’re going to run like every other night, but it’s only for a limited number of people so we can get an idea of how we’ll really be doing when we open. Gets some buzz going. Since we had to push our official opening date back a week we need to keep people’s interest.”

Ian nods. He looks down at his paper. It’s a lot of names to memorize, but he can do it. The cooler for bottles is easier. There are a lot of them, but there’s a list on top of the cooler, just like they had at The Fairy Tail.

“I think you should work the night of the launch,” she says slowly. “Might as well just throw you in. Are you game?”

Ian smiles. “Yes.” That’s a lot of alcohol studying. But he can do it.

“It’s Saturday,” she says. “Too short of notice?”

Saturday. It’s his shift at The Alibi, but Kev will understand. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“We’ll put you with someone more experienced,” Jane says. “Clare. Remember her? Rockabilly haircut? Lots of tattoos?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He met Clare at the training. Sort of quiet, but nice.

Jane taps her finger against her chin, thinking. “Good. I think you’d make a good team. She’ll be here soon.” She takes out her phone, a sparkly phone case with a gold tassel, and starts to type. “I’ll text her. Unlike you, she’s running late.”

*

His little apartment building calls it a full gym, but it’s just one treadmill, one weight bench, and a long mirror crammed in a tiny room next to the laundry room. Still, when it’s wintertime, it does the job nicely. He doesn’t mind running in the cold, but he likes to mix it up.

He’s back on his Monday-Wednesday-Friday running schedule, so Monday it is. Mickey missed class today. He had a meeting with his P.O. Ian missed seeing him. He’s gotten so used to seeing him.

Ian has built a solid workout routine over the last year. It’s not just running. He does some stuff in his apartment. He has a real pull-up bar now instead of a doorframe. Weights. His own body to do his daily pushups and situps. He likes to feel his body move, his strength. He likes to feel rooted in his body, fully present. He hasn’t always felt that way.

He chooses the program on the treadmill. His feet hit in a practiced, easy pace before he speeds up. His earbuds are loud enough that he can’t hear the machine.

Ian whispers the names of the beer list as he runs, saying them in the same beat as his feet, as his music. He has them pretty much memorized. He’s been brushing up on his drink making skills—just the specialty and featured ones. At The Fairy Tail it was lots of vodka sodas and tequila shots. Nothing fancy, except sometimes whiskey neat and bourbon, like the old guy who—

Forget it. He shakes his head. Forget.

Something else. Anything else.

But Ian's brain is holding onto it, refusing to drop it from its teeth. He can feel his heart beating hard. He feels like he can almost see all the lights swinging down, the green and the purple and the blue. The music is thumping in his ears, and he thinks of the dance music he moved to on the blocks, the music he heard muffled in the bathroom when he was on his knees for anyone. Everyone.

He accelerates the treadmill. His feet hit faster. Fuck this. Fuck this part of him that refuses to forget. It’s so heavy, and all he wants to do is set it down, but his brain won’t let it go. And his body won’t either.

Run. Just keep running. Run it out. That’s what he’s always done when things get hard. He tries to run it out. Lift weights as thick as his worry, do push ups until his arms begin to shake. It helps to force his body to extend itself, press up against his limits and then press past them until he can hardly breathe. There’s a place that exists there where he feels free, a mind free from hurt and free from pain.

He squeezes his eyes shut against the sweat threatening to drop down his forehead. His legs move and move, and he knows he needs to slow down but he can’t. He doesn’t want to. But there is a noise, and when he turns his head he sees a man walking in, smiling.

“You’re fast,” the man says, a sideways grin. “Shit!”

Ian huffs out a smile. “Thanks,” he pants. His lungs burn.

“You gotta slow down,” the guy says. “You look like you’re hurting.”

Ian shakes his head. “I’m fine.” Panting. Panting.

The guy moves toward him, closer to the treadmill. Ian fights the urge to push him away, stop the machine and walk out, but he’s not done running yet.

“You’re new here,” the guy says. He looks Ian up and down.

Ian's arms swing in fists beside his body as he runs. A little further out and it would be a punch in the man’s general direction. By now, the guy is close enough.

“Not new,” Ian says.

The red numbers on the machine count down, and Ian focuses on them instead of the guy’s face, but when he glances back up, the guy is still there.

“What?” Ian winces against his breath.

The guy does that sideways grin again. “You look good. Strong.”

Ian slides his headphones back into his ears. The guy doesn’t move. His mouth moves, but Ian can’t hear him. He focuses back on the red numbers, the few minutes that tick by until his cooldown. Something interrupts his vision. The guy is waving his hand to get his attention.

“What?” Ian is impatient, yanking one earbud out of his ear. “What the fuck do you want?”

The man leans against the machine and stares at Ian’s mouth. “Wanna fuck?”

"No,” Ian says. He pops the earbud back in. He’s going so fast. The guy is still talking. Why is he still talking?

Ian sets his jaw speeds up the machine, fighting to keep his balance. He pulls the earbud out again. “What?”

“I said you look like you know how to suck a cock.” The man steps even closer. “Think you should suck mine.”

The emergency stop button is thick under his hand, and he has to reach out to grab hold of the machine so he doesn’t fall. His legs wobble when he steps off, and he’s panting hard, but his fist still manages to hit the man right where he wants it to. The man holds his jaw, gives a sharp noise of surprise.

“Hey,” the guy says. There’s blood in his mouth. Ian can see it against his teeth. “Just a question. You didn’t have to—

Ian’s fist hits harder the second time, and the guy stumbles back.

“No!” Ian flexes his fingers. “You can’t ask me to do that anymore.”

“What do you mean?” The guy spits on the ground. “I’ve never even seen you before.”

There’s a mirror along the wall, and when the man’s back slams against it, Ian expects it to shatter, but it doesn’t. The man gasps as if the wind was knocked out of him. Maybe it was. The guy is about to say something else, but he stops.

Ian catches his own eyes in the mirror, wild, but full of something else. The feeling in his belly tells the truth. Fear.

Ian crowds his space. “I don’t have to fucking suck your dick,” Ian says. His stomach churns. “No one can make me do that.”

“Okay,” the guy gasps. He raises his hands up in surrender. “I was just…I was just trying to pick you up. And then I thought maybe…”

“No.” Ian snaps.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I don’t have to do that,” Ian shakes his head hard as if trying to clear it.

The man squints, and then wipes at his mouth. “I didn’t say you had to. I just thought that maybe you…”

“I don’t want to,” Ian says, shaking his head fast, wide eyed.

The guy opens his mouth, but doesn’t speak. Adrenaline flies through Ian’s body. He could run for hours. Run away from all of this. But he doesn’t.

Ian backs up, and the guy doesn’t make a move to fight back. Instead the guy looks confused. But Ian is still ready for a punch, a shove, a threat, anything. There’s part of him that’s always ready for that now.

“I get to say when I want to,” Ian says. His voice waivers as the tears threaten to come. “I get to choose.”

The man nods. Ian’s eyes burn with tears, and he turns away before they can fall. Ian pushes the gym door open, runs up the stairs, and out the door into the cold night.

*

Mickey missed Tuesday, too. He had the opportunity to pick up a shift at Patsy’s, and he needs the money. They had that brief, beautiful time on Sunday morning, and they’ve talked on the phone, but it isn’t the same.

Class was quiet, and Ian didn’t study his math. Rex talked with him about his mother and asked questions about Monica, but Ian dodged the subject by asking him about his love life. Rex is on every dating app there is. The thought of dating apps makes Ian exhausted.

So on Wednesday, when he sees Mickey standing there, smoking, he feels relief. But immediately it’s like Mickey knows something happened. His eyebrows go up, the lines on his forehead deep and thick.

He hasn’t told him.

“What is it?” Mickey puts the lit cigarette in his mouth and pulls out another, handing it to Ian as he meets him. He passes the lighter over too. When Ian lights it, he realizes that Mickey can see his bruised hand.

“What the fuck?” Mickey reaches for Ian’s hand, but Ian waves it off.

“A guy in my building,” Ian says. “Had a problem in the gym. He…he tried to pick me up. I think I overreacted.”

“Tell me,” Mickey says. He sets his jaw.

Ian does. When he recounts it, he thinks he sounded stupid. He could have just ignored him. He didn’t have to do that.

But blows out sharply and throws his cigarette in the street. “What’s he look like?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “I handled it. I’ve never seen him before anyway.”

“Still an asshole.” Mickey looks over his shoulder, then takes Ian’s hand. He lifts it, looks at his knuckles. “Not too bad,” he says.

“Yeah. Not too bad.”

Mickey’s lips are perfect. He bites them, then squints. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” Mickey says quietly.

Ian takes a deep drag of the cigarette, breathing out the smoke slowly. “Should we go in?”

Ian stubs out the cigarette and throws it in the trash. The floor in the entryway is dirty and slippery.

“Gotta piss,” Mickey says, and turns the corner.

Ian comes to Mr. Walker’s door. It’s closed, but he knocks anyway. Waits. Nothing.

What the hell is going on? He hasn’t heard anything about a meeting since that day in the library.

He heads in. Rex is sitting at the computer, reading the New York Times like he does every morning.

“Hey,” Ian says, setting his backpack down.

“So they have this store in Brooklyn where you can buy beer and gin and whiskey and stuff without actual alcohol in it,” Rex says, pointing at the screen. “What the hell is the point of that? An entire store of just that?”

Ian shrugs his coat off and tosses it on the chair. “Not everyone drinks,” he says. “I don’t really. Not often, anyway.”

“Would you drink a beer without alcohol in it?”

Ian thinks. “No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“They have a whole article on it,” Rex says, turning back to the screen. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

Ian pulls out his notebook and Mickey’s new comic. He sets the reading book down next to the comic. He arranges his pencils and throws his bag on the floor.

“Get the shit,” Mickey says, heading into the library.

Ian grins and heads for the stacks. He drags his fingertips against the spines and then pulls the trigonometry book off of the shelf. It’s heavier than it looks.

“I don’t know about this yet,” Ian calls out. “I don’t think I spent enough time on geometry.”

He returns to the table and slides the book toward Mickey.

“You’ll be fine,” Mickey says, sort of distracted. He’s paging through the book already, squinting. “Besides, geometry isn’t that hard.”

Ian laughs. “Says you.”

“Yeah me,” Mickey says, cracking a smile. “If I can get math, anyone can.”

Rex turns away from the computer screen. “So not true.”

“See?” Ian says, gesturing. “Even Rex is with me.”

“Don’t pay attention to him. Eyes on the book,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes.

Ian sighs and looks at the page. Then he looks up. Wait. “What are you going to do?”

Mickey stares at him. “'Bout what.”

Ian gestures to the stack of books on the table. “You didn’t read much last week.”

“That’s because I was helping your ass.” Mickey pulls the books over and looks at the cover of his reading book.

“Do you not like the comic?”

Mickey doesn’t look up. “Just easier when I can do math instead. Plus soon it’s gonna be time for you to do that GED class.”

Ian looks over toward the computer. Rex has turned back to it. He reaches for Mickey’s hand.

“You’re doing well,” Ian says quietly. “You are.”

Mickey shrugs one shoulder. “Feel like I’m not getting any faster.”

Ian squeezes Mickey’s hand, waits for Mickey to meet his eyes. “It’s getting clearer though,” he says. “You said yourself the reversals are getting better. And you aren’t losing your place as much.”

“That thing with the cut out box in the paper helped with that,” Mickey says quietly. “The chunking thing.”

“Yeah, exactly. That made a big difference.”

Mickey lets go of Ian’s hand and reaches for the notebook. “Maybe I can copy some shit,” he says. “Work on the handwriting.”

“That’s getting better too,” Ian says. “And you don’t have to do what I said with the pencil holding. Your control is there with more practice.”

Mickey leans forward, starts to sketch. “I need a new comic,” he says. “Not sure I like this one.”

Ian starts to smile. “That’s the cool thing,” he says. “You can always read whatever you want. Some people get so dedicated they have to finish. I always move on if I don’t like something. Life’s too short.”

Mickey is starting to draw a person, but nothing in the face yet. “I could try another book,” he says slowly. Like, I don’t know, a real book.”

“Okay,” Ian says carefully. “Yeah, that can happen. We can look for one.”

“Nothin’ babyish,” Mickey says, voice stern. “Not some ABC shit.” He points his pencil at his reading book. “I get enough of that in there. And not something in fancy writing.”

“Like complicated or visually?”

“Like looking at cursive. Is that right? Cursive?”

Ian nods. “But they don’t write books in cursive.”

Mickey hardens his eyes, just a little. “Some of those comics do.”

“Maybe, but regular books aren’t in cursive. They’re—”

“Cause I can’t read that,” Mickey says firmly. “Hurts my eyes. Or letters that slant. Don’t like that.”

“Italics,” Ian says. “Okay, no italics.”

“So a book like that,” Mickey says. “Without that shit.”

“I can ask the reading teacher,” Ian says. “Maybe she knows. Or someone at a bookstore. I don’t know. But we can figure it out, okay?”

MIckey grunts out a little affirmative sound, then goes back to drawing. He’s starting to draw eyes, and shading them, and Ian realizes that Mickey is drawing him. Something in the way he looks, like when he looks at himself in the mirror.

MIckey starts in on the nose. “Maybe, like, a mystery. Or something scary. Or violent.”

Ian cracks a smile. “You got it.”

“Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark,” Rex blurts out, and turns to them. “That’s easy. Creepy pictures. Urban legends. My niece likes that book.”

“Nothin’ a kid would like,” Mickey says firmly, not looking up. “I wanna read something harder.”

“We’ll ask the teacher,” Ian says. “She’ll know something.”

Ian’s lips are resting in the picture, and his jaw is set, but not in a harsh way. He doesn’t know how Mickey is drawing him like this, so easily, so quickly, with just a regular pencil. Curving the lines of his face like he’s seen it for years. Slowly. Lovingly. Lovingly? He clears his throat.

“What.” Mickey stops drawing and looks up.

Lovingly.

“Nothing,” Ian says. “Just thinking about the launch thing.”

“Still can’t believe they’re letting you work somewhere so fancy,” Rex says. “Westside.”

Mickey looks back at his picture. “Asshole, he lives on the west side.”

Rex starts to laugh. “They let you? Don’t all those Westside douches get under your skin?”

“One guy did,” Ian says slowly, “but I took care of it.”

“See, that’s why I don’t even leave the Southside,” Rex says. “Hardly ever. Why’d you leave, anyway?”

Ian shrugs. “Something different. A fresh start. Like this. And my new job.”

Rex puts his hands behind his head and leans back. “I’m starting fresh too. No more illegal shit. I’m retired. Gonna grow some tomatoes and mind my own business.”

“Speaking of minding your own business,” Mickey grumbles. He looks back up at Ian. Points to the trigonometry book. “Read.”

Ian shakes his head. “You have to read too.”

“I’m almost done,” Mickey says, and then drops his pencil. He turns the notebook around, and Ian is staring at his own face. He wants to look away, like he does when he looks in the mirror. But Mickey is so proud, and the lines are so sure, and he knows then that Mickey sees him. Really sees him.

“It’s good,” Ian says. “Looks just like me.”

Mickey rips the paper out of the notebook. He starts to fold it and slips it into his coat pocket. “I’m keepin’ this,” he says.

“If you want a picture of me all you have to do is ask,” Ian teases.

Mickey rolls his eyes and picks up his phone. He points it at Ian and takes a photo.

“Wait, I wasn’t ready!”

“Heh heh.” Mickey looks at it. “That’s a fuckin’ keeper.”

*
On Friday he hits the treadmill, and this time nothing interrupts him. He does a set on the big weight bench. He’s tempted to push himself with the weights, but knows he needs a spotter for that. Maybe Mickey can do it sometime.

He’s sweating heavily when he gets back to his apartment. Bill meets him at the door, loud and insistent.

“I already fed you, lady,” he says. “Come on, I gotta shower.”

Bill follows him into the bathroom. She likes the shower, likes to swipe her paw behind the curtain, and likes to get in after the water is turned off. He feels like he’s never quite alone, just like being pestered by a sibling in the shower back at the house.

The water feels good. He worked his shoulders and arms hard, and the heat soothes them.

Ian has his psych appointment tomorrow. He’s so thankful that even through all of this, he’s been stable. The thought of the launch is triggering some anxiety, but nothing he can’t handle. Nothing like what was happening on the train last summer. He’ll feel better once The Earl is open and he can just be working all the time. He knows he’ll have to watch it with his sleep schedule though. Even during the week there are bound to be some late nights.

He’s been working with his doctor since he got out of the hospital the last time. She really turned him around. It was a big med switch, but it made such a difference. This antipsychotic isn’t putting him to sleep with a brain that feels like it’s stuffed with oatmeal. This one is purple and white and brings him such peace it is remarkable.

Yes, first there was the restlessness, and the trembling hands so bad he’d fumble with glasses at The Alibi, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He got another med for the side effects, and soon was able to go off that one too. Side effects don’t always last, thankfully. The trade off was worth it.

He still had the problems last summer. That thing with the train. Once hearing a bunch of chatter in his brain and not sleeping. Mania. But it’s part of the beast, and he’s learned how to roll with it without fear. That’s the key, he’s realized. Acceptance over fear.

He shuts off the water, and when he opens the curtain, Bill is there waiting.

“It’s all yours,” he says as he steps out.

*

The phone ringing jolts him awake. Immediately, he panics. Something’s wrong. He grabs the phone. Mickey. It’s almost two, but it feels much later. Mickey just got off work at Patsy’s, that’s all. It’s okay.

He answers quickly. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“Lemme in,” Mickey says quickly. “Wanna see you.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, startled. “Okay, just one sec.” He walks over to the buzzer and presses the button. He rubs his eyes and opens the door.

Mickey comes around the corner and stops.

“What’s wrong?”

Mickey’s face softens. “Fuck. I needed to see you.”

Ian steps back to let him into the apartment. “Why? What is it?”

Mickey shrugs his coat off and throws it somewhere. “I need to say this.”

Ian’s stomach jumps. “Okay.”

Mickey looks nervous. “It’s just…I was thinkin’ of you while I was working. Freaked me out.”

Ian swallows. “What did I do wrong? Just tell me. I can handle it.” It’s a lie. He’ll be crushed.

Mickey shakes his head. “Didn’t do nothin'.”

“Then what?”

Mickey bites his lip. “I was just thinking about you. And all that’s been goin’ on. With us.” Mickey looks down, then up again, meeting Ian’s eyes. “I feel a lot. For you. ‘S a really big feeling. It’s a lot. And I don’t know what to fuckin’ do.”

Ian’s mouth drops open a little, and his legs feel far away. “What do you mean?”

“I mean. I mean I just feel a lot.”

That’s all Mickey says. There isn’t the word love. He doesn't even use the word like. There isn't the word forever. Or promise.

But it’s there, on his face. His face looks more and more worried. He bites his lip again. “Need you to say somethin’ back now.”

Ian swallows. He slowly brings his hand to Mickey’s face. His eyes shift back and from Mickey’s eyes to his mouth. “I feel a lot for you too,” he whispers.

Mickey lets out a breath. “Yeah?”

Ian nods. “Yeah.”

Mickey looks down, biting his lip.

“Hey,” Ian whispers, pulling Mickey closer by the waist. He carefully slides his hands down to cup Mickey’s ass and breathes hot and heavy into Mickey’s mouth. “C’mere.”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes. “Touch me like that.”

Ian kisses him as he grabs his ass harder. Even in jeans, it drives him wild. He knows what Mickey looks like bare. He knows he’ll see him soon.

Mickey pushes him back until Ian is sitting on the bed. Mickey immediately straddles him, humming into a kiss.

Ian gives him a squeeze before coming up to hold Mickey by the back of the neck, and Mickey pulls away from his lips, letting his head rock back. Ian’s mouth latches onto Mickey’s throat, sucking on it. Mickey gasps out a yeah and Ian sucks harder.

Ian’s hands shake when they meet Mickey’s belt buckle. Mickey answers with a steady grind of his hips and a low growl. Ian starts to unbuckle him fast. As soon as the belt is undone Ian shoves his hands down the back of Mickey’s pants, holding onto skin, whispering fuck into Mickey’s chest.

“Hold me tighter,” Mickey pleads. “More.”

Ian's fingers press in and he starts to pull at his cheeks, and Mickey gasps at the roughness of Ian’s grip.

“So good,” Ian groans. “Fuck, your ass is so good.”

Mickey grinds against him again. “Take my clothes off.”

Ian grabs at his waist and flips Mickey over on the bed. Mickey’s eyes are surprised at the movement, but then Ian’s fingers pull at his hip bones, sliding the pants and boxers off him, letting Mickey’s thick dick free, and Mickey moans.

Ian barely takes his eyes off of Mickey’s cock as he pulls off his own shirt and tosses it on the floor. God, it’s beautiful. His mouth waters. And then Ian knows what he’s going to do.

He must have paused, because then Mickey runs his hands up Ian’s chest before cupping Ian’s face, sighing. “You okay?”

Ian nods slowly. “Sit on the edge of the bed,” he says quietly, backing off Mickey and kneeling on the floor. “Please.”

Mickey sits up, swings his legs over. He’s worried. The lines in his forehead write a question.

“I’m okay,” Ian says. He slides his hands up Mickey’s powerful thighs and up to his hips. He blinks up at him. “I wanna…I wanna blow you.”

Mickey’s lips part. “You serious?”

Ian murmurs in agreement. “I’ve been thinking about it. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to. But I really want to, Mick.”

Mickey’s hand pulls him up by the neck and he kisses him hard, his tongue swiping in. Ian meets him, pressing his own tongue against his, excited and nervous all at once.

“Can you,” Mickey pants. “Can you maybe…” Mickey breathes out a shaky breath. “I want your pants off so I can see you. That okay?”

Ian rushes to comply, pushing his sweatpants down, letting his aching cock free. He can hear Mickey give a little groan.

Ian tugs himself a few times. Shit, he’s hard. “Can I swallow? I wanna swallow. Are you—”

“I’m safe,” Mickey says. “Got tested.”

Ian nods fast. “Okay,” he says. “Good. I’m good too. I should have said so before, but it’d been so long for me I figured you’d—”

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly, nodding. “I thought so.”

Ian looks down. He’s so hard. Mickey is so hard. “You look really good like this,” Ian says quietly. He squeezes at Mickey’s hips before leaning forward. He can smell him, deep and intoxicating. Ian closes his eyes and then opens them slowly. Fuck. He begins to stroke him fully, and hears Mickey’s breath speed up. Mickey’s foreskin slides back and his head is dewy and pink.

“Look so good,” Ian says again. And then he licks his lips.

When Ian’s tongue meets him, sliding thick and wet up the underside of Mickey’s shaft, he knows this is right. It feels right. So right. And when he closes his lips around the head, he can taste Mickey’s desire for him. There is a small flash of his past, just a second, and then relief that softens him, softens his throat as Mickey slides down. He glides up slowly, his tongue caressing him, his mouth so full of Mickey’s thickness that it stretches the corners of his mouth.

“Fuck,” Mickey moans, “Ian.”

This is his choice. This is what he wants. No one is paying him, no one is calling him names as his knees ache on the tiled bathroom floor. No one is forcing him. No one is saying he has to, or else. No one is buying him or his affection. No one is hurting him.

He’s free. And It’s just them. Together. He is letting Mickey in, inviting him in. He never wants to stop. He wants Mickey. He has a place waiting for him, waiting for pieces of him, all of him.

He chooses Mickey.

Ian groans and takes him out of his mouth, working Mickey’s dick with his hand as Ian bends lower to suck at his balls. Mickey curses, and when his hand slides into Ian’s hair, Ian lets him. He licks and sucks, then heads back to his dick, giving it all the attention he can.

“Oh shit,” Mickey says. “Shit, you’re so good at this. Gonna come. That…that okay?”

“Mmm,” Ian hums. He knows without Mickey saying it. He can hear it in his voice, see it in his face, feel it in Mickey’s trembling thighs. The taste of Mickey’s dick is heady and strong, and Ian is ready.

Mickey gasps. Gasps again.

Ian moves faster, steadily, until Mickey releases into his mouth. Ian’s throat works to swallow, works as Mickey continues to come, and Ian can feel it all. He can feel his own body, rooted. Not floating away, not going blank or missing. He is there. With Mickey.

It’s perfect.

Ian sucks gently as his hand comes up to work the last bit into his mouth. He looks up at Mickey’s face as he pulls away. Mickey is looking at him like something precious, something special, and it’s different from any other look he’s been given when he’s done this.

All the other times he’s done this.

But no. This is Mickey, and now is now, and he’s rising up on his knees and kissing Mickey deeply, and Mickey’s hand caresses his back as he hums into Ian’s mouth.

“Fucking amazing,” Mickey says, breaking away. His eyes almost look glassy with bliss. But there’s fire there too when he looks down at Ian’s body. “Jesus Christ.”

Because Ian’s cock is leaking, hard and ready. Mickey pulls at his shoulder, and Ian follows him, pulling his body off the floor, flopping down on his back, reaching up for Mickey with both hands.

“You’re so fuckin’ hard,” Mickey growls. His tongue curls and he licks into Ian’s mouth . “One stroke and you’d blow, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ian gasps. “Mickey, please.”

Mickey slides down his body, breathing on Ian’s aching cock before taking him in his hand, setting a fast pace as he jacks him off. Mickey’s tongue is out, and his breath is hot, and when Ian strains and starts to come, Mickey lets Ian shoot into his wide open mouth, and Mickey groans as some hits his cheek and chin. Mickey closes his mouth around Ian, sucking the last of him up.

“Ahh,” Ian's body jerks, head back, toes clenching, sensitive.

MIckey knows. He pulls off and wipes at his face. Ian groans at the sight

“Look so fucking good like that,” Ian pants. “Jesus Christ.”

“Told ya I like it.” Mickey grins and slides up the bed next to Ian. “That’s just a preview.”

Ian chuckles as he raises his arm, and Mickey slides inside it, tucked against Ian’s side. It’s like he’s always been here with him. Like Ian has kept Mickey safe, always. That he could go back in time and keep Mickey safe from all that hurt him. Save him. And maybe, just maybe, Mickey would do the same for him.

Their breathing evens out, the fire cooling.

“It’s a big feeling,” Ian says quietly. “Being with you.”

Mickey swallows. “It’s a lot.”

“It is a lot.” He moves to slide his hand against Mickey’s forehead, then stops, remembering his scar.

“It’s okay,” Mickey whispers. He takes Ian’s hand and slides it over the scar. “That’s a lot, too.”

Ian’s voice is almost a whisper. “I hate that it happened to you.”

“I know,” Mickey says.

“And I never want you to get hurt again,” Ian says.

“I know. But I won’t. Not like that. He’s dead.”

Ian doesn’t want to linger there, so he carefully takes his hand away.

“I want to protect you,” Ian says.

Mickey takes Ian’s hand in his. “I’ve been fighting my whole life,” Mickey says. “Don’t need protecting.”

Ian squeezes Mickey’s hand. “That’s not what I mean,” he says quietly. “I mean you. Your…your heart.”

Immediately he regrets the choice of words. It’s too close to the word love, a word neither of them is ready to say.

Ian’s mouth opens and closes. He doesn’t know what to say. He tries. “That was, I’m sorry if that was too much. I just…”

“I know,” Mickey says quietly. He doesn’t say anything else. “I wanna protect you, too.”

Ian’s eyes blur. He blinks hard, but the tears threaten to fall.

Mickey looks up at him. He looks afraid. “Why are you…”

Ian wipes at his eyes with one hand. “I just, I let you in. To my body. I can’t believe I feel like this. Like it’s all gonna be okay.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Mickey says. He rubs a hand over Ian’s chest, fingertips sliding into the hair there.

“I bought condoms today.”

Mickey stops rubbing and tilts his head back to look at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm. At the pharmacy when I was getting my meds.”

Mickey grins. “Lube?”

Ian laughs. “That too.”

Mickey rubs at his chest again. God, it feels nice. Peaceful. “You’re prepared then.”

“Getting there,” Ian says quietly.

It’s so late. Or early, depending on the point of view. Soon the sky will get lighter. Because lately, it hasn’t been so grey. Spring is coming, always comes back again, warming everything slowly.

“We’ll get there,” Ian says. “I know we will.”

Chapter Text

The problem started after Ian had that manic episode last summer. Loud jokes and innuendo at The Alibi. Pancakes at 4 a.m. Running faster. Farther. Thoughts he couldn’t quite catch. He told himself he was on top of things. Productive. He told himself he was okay.

It took him a few days to recognize it, even after he rearranged the furniture. Even after he caught himself getting irritated at people on the street, snapping at Lip when he called to check on him because Ian kept leaving rambling messages. Lip was the worst because he could tell before anyone else could. And he’d ask. And Ian hated it. Hated the asking, the insinuation that Ian didn’t know himself well enough to catch it.

He did. Catch it. He just didn’t want it to be happening. His trazodone and ativan helped him reset, and within a couple days he came back down.

But sometimes down from mania meant he grew anxious, like his brain wasn’t sure what to do with itself anymore. He froze up when he tried to think. Fearful. Insecure. Putting himself back together took time and patience. It wasn’t a quick fix. Sometimes it was a slow fade, the anxiety dragging along behind him trying to catch up to his heel. That’s probably what caused the thing with the train.

It happened every time he rode it. Ian would stand by the train door even if there were plenty of seats. If he sat, he might be next to someone, and the feeling of someone brushing against him made him feel trapped. Every time the doors would open he would breathe in deeply, as if the hot, muggy air outside could clear the worry out of his lungs. He would whisper words to himself. Colors, because that is always an easy one to remember to do. He’d look around the train, naming all the colors he saw. People’s shirts. Shorts. A sundress.

When it finally lifted weeks later, he was able to sit. Breathe. Relax. Ever since then, he’s been okay. Still, he tries not to think about it. If he thinks about it too hard, he starts to feel like he’s slipping into it, like remembering it too much will bring it back.

So he doesn’t. He doesn’t think about it too long.

He still sees the same doctor he saw when he lived on the South Side, but he likes her so much he decided he’d still make the trip. At least the snow has melted, even though everywhere is muddy. If they’re lucky, the snow is over. It’s a warm day. False spring, some call it. Still, he takes off his coat, shivering a bit in his thin hoodie, but the air feels so good he can’t help it.

The psychiatrist is on the upper floor of an old brick building, right above a new dentist’s office. Before it was a dentist, it was a check cashing place. New people in the neighborhood can afford the dentist. New people in the neighborhood have banks. New people are starting to squeeze all the other people out. Ian doesn’t know where they go. There’s nowhere left in the city to go.

There are cameras all over the waiting room. A reception window made of thick glass. For some reason the office always has a sound machine running instead of music. The small hush of it is comforting.

The receptionist must see him on a camera, because she slides her window open. “Good afternoon!” Her voice is bright. They must have a policy. Keep it upbeat. Light. Just in case.

“Hi,” he says. “Ian Gallagher?” He says his name like a question, like he doesn’t quite remember who he is. “I’m here to see Dr. Wyman?”

“Great! You can just have a seat,” she says, smiling.

He starts to say thanks, but she closes the window quickly. He stands there blinking, looks up at the camera, then sits.

He feels his pocket buzz. Text message. He takes it out, expecting Mickey, but it’s Mr. Walker.

Please call me when you can. We had that meeting and I’d like to discuss it with you.

Something drops in Ian’s stomach. He types quickly. At the doctor now but I’ll call you soon. Ian looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath, breathes it out. Shit.

“Hey you!” Dr. Wyman is there, smiling. “Come on in!”

Ian smiles and slips his phone back in his pocket. Dr. Wyman is quite short but tries to make up for it by wearing chunky boots. They thunk down the hallway as he follows her.

Her office is very sparse, mostly just a computer and an orchid, a couple of thick books and three chairs. She sits down in one and he sits across from her.

“So.” She smiles at him.

“So,” he says back.

“What’s going on these days?” She turns toward the computer and clicks the mouse around. “How have you been feeling?”

“I’m…I’m good,” he says, and he means it. “Feeling stable. Mostly.”

Doctor Wyman nods. “Mostly stable is good. Mostly stable is always good.” She taps on the computer. “Any depression?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

He tries not to think too hard about whatever she types. “Any hypomania?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Any sensory experiences?”

She means the chatter he sometimes hears when he’s manic. She means the things he thinks he can see out of the corner of his eye. “No,” he says. “I’m good.”

“That’s great to hear. What about panic attacks?”

He thinks about how he ran out to The Earl, worried what would happen now that they knew he worked at The Fairy Tail. The anxiety in his stomach. Sweating in the cold.

“A little while ago I was pretty anxious, but nothing I couldn’t handle,” Ian says. “Situational. Not exactly a real panic attack.”

She types fast and nods. “Anything trigger it?”

The Fairy Tail. She already knows anyway.

“I was thinking about before,” he says carefully. “When I worked…you know. In Boystown.”

She pauses and looks over. “Did you go back to Boystown?”

His eyes widen. “Oh fuck no.” He stops himself. “Sorry about that.”

She waves him off. “It’s healthy.”

“It’s just this new job,” he says, sighing. “I tried to, like, hide it. I didn’t want to say that I worked there. I didn’t want to get into it. The dancing. And the, you know.”

She nods.

Ian opens his mouth to speak, but doesn’t.

She leans across the desk. “Do you want to talk about it?” It’s not pressured, just casual. Giving him room.

He swallows. “Not really. It’s just…lately I’ve been thinking about it more, and I don’t want to like, give it…”

“More power?”

Ian nods. “Yeah. I just want to focus on this new job. It’ll be good for me. We’re opening tomorrow. Well, what’s called a launch. I’m gonna bartend.”

“Ooh,” she says, impressed. “Kicking it off! Good for you.” She reaches back over to the computer and types. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sleeping really well, actually.” He pauses and thinks about the time Mickey woke him up in the middle of the night and they didn’t go back to sleep. “Most of the time, I mean. I have a…I have a boyfriend now. That guy I told you about?”

She smiles. “How is that going for you?”

He sits forward in his chair and fiddles with his hands. “Do you mean, like, sex?”

“I meant the relationship, but whatever you want to talk about.”

“We haven’t had sex yet,” he says. “I mean we’ve…but not like sex sex.”

Dr. Wyman looks at him, kind as always. “Are you having the flashbacks?”

Ian nods. “Sometimes,” he says quietly. “Sometimes, yeah.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says softly. “I know that’s been hard.”

It usually happens in the shower. He sees his body, the water falling, and remembers showering after the club, exhausted muscles, but a brain that wouldn’t stop. Remembers how a sour feeling would creep up on him as the drugs wore off, and then he would be spitting over and over into the drain, as if that would clear all that just happened, every man he took. It’s a trigger. He learned the word from Dr. Wyman. The shower can be one of his triggers. He sometimes has to get out, disgusted with himself, barely able to touch his body. Other times he stays in a long time, turning the water hotter and hotter.

“It hasn’t been happening as much though,” Ian says. “And with Mickey…he’s just really patient with me. Checks in a lot. During stuff, I mean. In the past I would have thought checking in was messing up the flow of things, but I kind of…need it, I guess?”

Dr. Wyman looks straight at him. Her eyes are always so kind. “I’m so glad to hear it. You deserve someone like that.”

“Thanks,” he says, and he means it. It’s nice to hear.

“Sounds like you’re in a pretty good spot then,” she says, turning back to the computer. “I’ll get you refills. Anything else? When do you wanna come back? One month? Two months?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I have a question.”

She turns away from the computer and leans forward again, folding her hands on the desk. “What’s up?”

He leans forwards too. “Do you think…do you think I’ll ever be able to take less medicine? I’ve been thinking about how good I’m doing, and maybe I can, I don’t know. Cut one out?”

She looks at him. She doesn’t speak at first, but her eyes soften. “It took a long time for you to find the right cocktail,” she finally says gently. “I’d hate for you to slip back to where you were.”

“I know,” Ian says. He looks down at his hands. “I was just hoping that maybe someday…”

“Anything is possible,” Dr. Wyman says carefully. “But for now, I think you should stay where you are. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”

“It just gets,” Ian begins, and takes a deep breath, lets it out. “It gets old. Sometimes I feel so mad at them. Like, mad at my actual meds. I hate that I have to take them just to, like, fit in with the world. I know I need them. Without them, I just get crazier.”

“Hey,” she says. “You get sick. It’s a medical problem. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I know. It’s just that my mom got worse. And I don’t want to.”

Dr. Wyman shakes her head. “You are two very different people in your approach to bipolar disorder. You are medically compliant and seek out coping strategies. From what you’ve told me, your mom hasn’t done either of those things. You are taking care of yourself. Very well, I might add. Are there going to be bumps in the road for you health-wise? Maybe. But you have the tools you need to handle it, and you know how to reach out for more support if you need it. Not everyone can do that. ”

Ian clenches his teeth and looks at his lap. He won’t cry. He hates it when he cries here. “Thanks.” He looks up again, clears his throat.

“So that’s why it’s important to keep taking this med combination,” Dr. Wyman says. “Even if you get mad at them sometimes.” She searches his eyes. He breaks her gaze and looks at his hands again. “Does that make sense?”

He nods, but doesn’t look up.

“Ian,” she says. “I’m not saying never. I’m just saying I don’t think it’s a good idea right now.”

“You’re right,” Ian says. He looks up. “I know you’re right. Don’t worry. I won’t stop taking meds. I know I need them. I’m better with them. It’s just nice to think about not needing so much.”

“I understand,” Dr. Wyman says. “But you’re doing so well, We don’t know what’s in the future, we just know how things look for your health right now. You’re brave. Keep doing what you’re doing. Come to see me. Take those meds. Keep talking with your boyfriend. Be patient with your healing. And call me if something goes sideways. Deal?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I will. I promise.”

Dr. Wyman smiles. “I know you will. You keep your promises.”

*

Kids still play basketball at the park after school. At least that hasn’t changed. They yell and tease, their coats strewn on the ground. But no one is sleeping in the park. That’s new. No one is openly selling drugs. It’s just some moms with fancy strollers hovering around the playground.

Ian finds a place to sit and pulls out his phone. He knows what Mr. Walker will say. Program is cut. Get out.

Mr. Walker picks up right away. “Hello Ian. I was just about to leave for the day. You caught me just in time.”

“Sorry,” Ian says. “I had to leave early today for my doctor’s appointment. It ran a little late.”

“Not a problem,” Mr. Walker says. “So look, I’m going to keep this simple. It was a tough decision. We had more than one meeting about it, and crunched some numbers.”

Ian stares at the bare trees, looking for signs of life. “Okay,” he says.

“We unfortunately can’t pay you anymore,” Mr. Walker says with a sigh. “The program is no longer going to be funded. But as long as we have a volunteer, we plan to keep a version of it going.”

“Okay,” Ian says slowly. “So what does that mean for Mickey and Rex?”

“It means they have to decide if they are going to continue at Malcolm X and take classes, or if it's time to leave.”

Ian watches the basketball bounce and opens his eyes wide. “So it’s just…over?”

“Not over,” Mr. Walker says. “There’s always another group waiting in the wings. We already have a few new guys set to come in. Whaddya say? You still up for it?”

“Um,” Ian says. Is he? “I don’t know. I have a new job, and I’m about to start some GED classes next week. So I guess not?”

“Well, you’re always welcome back,” Mr. Walker says. “And I’m sure I’ll see you around with your GED class. ”

Shit. Will he even see Rex again? “Do the guys know yet?”

“I’ll give them a call,” Mr. Walker says. “Ask if they want to come in to talk about the GED program. There’s always room. See if anyone wants to join you in the prep courses. It’s good you’re doing that. You’re smart.”

Ian’s hands are getting cold. “Thanks,” he says. He flexes his fingers.

“Well,” Mr. Walker says. “I appreciate all your hard work. Hope the guys didn’t give you too much of a hard time.”

He thinks about when he first saw all of them. O’Leary on the computer. Rex sitting on the table. Mickey talking. He had no idea what was about to happen.

“No,” Ian says. “No, it was actually pretty fun.”

“Good. It was a great program,” he says. “I wish it could have stayed funded. But that’s the way things go sometimes. I’ll see you around, Mr. Gallagher.”

“See you around,” Ian says quietly.

Ian stands up from the bench. His ass is cold. The kids slip their coats on and leave the basketball court. Ian might as well go home. Tomorrow is a big day with the launch. He should make sure he gets enough sleep tonight. Mickey just started work, and is going to be working very late. Mickey is going back to his own house after work tonight and will be back at work tomorrow all day. Maybe Ian can see him after the launch if it’s not too late? Maybe.

He almost misses the train, but slides in just in time. He takes a seat by the door, right next to a woman in a yellow coat.

*

He’s supposed to dress up a bit. Wear black. He already had nice pants, but he bought a new shirt. He had to buy new shoes, too. His chucks aren’t going to cut it. He found some really nice ones at the thrift store nearby. They looked like they had never been worn. On the West Side, he shouldn’t be surprised.

God, he hopes he makes some decent money tonight. He knows he’s paired up with Clare, and she’s worked some busy places. He still feels nervous about it for some reason, in a way he never worried about The White Swallow and The Fairy Tail. But that was easy. Flirt, take a shot, flirt, take a shot, take a break to blow someone in the bathroom, do a line, back to the bar. Repeat. Nothing like what he will be doing now. And that’s a deep relief. But without alcohol and coke, he doesn’t know how he’ll do. It’s not like The Alibi either, somewhere as familiar as the house he grew up in. The Earl is so new, and he just wants to be relaxed.

The walk is quick, and he’s early as always. Jane opens the door. She’s dressed up. Her makeup is perfect. Paul, who is usually dressed so casually, is wearing a suit. An actual suit. Ian suddenly panics that he is underdressed, but Jane squeals. “You look so good! So handsome!”

Ian looks down at his clothes. “I tried.”

Jane’s hair, usually so long, is done up in a complicated but sophisticated braid. “That’s all we can do,” she says nervously. “Try. And we’re gonna try hard tonight, aren’t we?”

There is a knock, and Clare slides in wearing a black dress that shows off her tattoo sleeves. “Let’s do this!” She sounds excited. Ready. It puts Ian at ease. Yes. Let’s do this.

When Ian heard it was an invite only, he didn’t expect them to invite everyone in the city. Within an hour, the place is packed.

The first drink he makes is a dirty martini on the rocks. The second drink is a craft beer, and Ian knows just which tap to pull from so he can talk with the woman without missing a beat. Then there are drinks three and four, and then so many he loses track. Ian makes suggestions. He remembers how to make everything. He tries not to be nervous as he opens an expensive bottle of wine, but the cork releases easily. He remembers the right glass. The pour is fragrant and he knows how high to fill it. Not a slosh to the top like he grew up with.

People like the food. They like the ambiance. And boy do they like drinking. He makes drinks for the servers to pick up, samples out the Motor Row beers, and cleans up quickly. He and Clare dance around each other like they’ve worked together for years. By the time it starts to slow down, he knows he’s made money. A lot of money.

Ian is watching Jane greet some new people at the door when Ian sees Mickey walk in. Mickey says something to Jane and she smiles and nods, gesturing to Ian. Ian stands up a little straighter.

Mickey is dressed up, too. Sort of. A charcoal grey button up, Ian has never seen before, paired with the dark jeans Ian loves. The ones that show off Mickey’s ass perfectly.

“Who is that?” Clare appears next to him. “He’s cute.”

Ian grins at her. “That’s my boyfriend.”

She leans back and gives him a smile. “Well, well, aren’t you lucky.”

Jane walks Mickey over and gives Ian a smile. “Get this guy a drink on the house. He’s polite. I like polite. You picked a good one.”

Someone approaches the bar, and Clare touches Ian’s arm quickly. “You talk to him. I got it.”

“Thanks,” Ian says. He rests his hands on the bar and gives Mickey a smile. “Polite?”

Mickey grins. “What can I say? I know how to lay it on.” He looks around. “This place is fancy as fuck.”

Ian doesn’t take his eyes off him. “There’s that politeness.”

Mickey smirks. “Thought she said I could get a drink on the house.”

Ian smiles and reaches for a high shelf. Whiskey. The good stuff.

“Naw naw,” Mickey says. “Give me the normal rail shit. Don’t need to waste that one on me.”

“Shh,” Ian says. He pours from the beautiful bottle and passes it over. “You deserve it,” he says. He lowers his voice. “Dressed like that, you definitely deserve it.”

Mickey’s tongue finds his cheek. “You like it? Don’t get used to it.”

Ian drags his eyes down Mickey’s chest. “I wanna rip that shirt off.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

Ian nods slowly. “Pop every button.”

Mickey smiles into his glass. “You’d wreck my only nice fuckin’ shirt if you did that.”

“I’d buy you a new one.”

MIckey sets his glass down. “Makin’ money?”

Ian glances over. Clare takes another customer. “I split it with Clare, but yeah.”

“Take me out to breakfast tomorrow,” Mickey says. “Except not some fuckin’ Patsy’s shit.”

Ian smirks. “You’re a brunch guy now? Man, you fit in great with this neighborhood.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, shaking his head.

Ian laughs. Another man starts to approach the bar and Ian turns to greet him. He gives Mickey one last look over his shoulder. Mickey raises his glass.

*

Ian didn’t know the servers tip the bartenders out at the end of the night. That’s more money right there. He doesn’t want to seem greedy, but it’s such a welcome sight to have good money coming in after being worried for months.

“It was a good night,” Paul says, smiling. “You both did a spectacular job. You made a good team.” He passes over some cash. “There’s a little extra in there too. You earned it.”

“Thank you,” Ian says gratefully. He wants to count it, but he doesn’t. He turns to Clare. “And thank you, too.”

“My pleasure,” Clare says. “I had a blast.” She gestures to Paul with her money. “Thank you for this.”

Jane pokes her head in. She pats her braids with one hand. “Ow, this hairdo is gonna give me a migraine. But we kicked ass tonight, guys. Thanks so much.”

“It was quite a night,” Ian says. “This is a great place.”

Jane smiles big. “I’m so glad you like it. I feel proud.” She looks over at Paul. “Everything good?”

Paul nods, closing the safe. “Right on the nose,” he says.

Jane glances over at Ian. “He’s still here,” she says. “I poured him another drink.”

Clare grins. “He didn’t take his eyes off you all night.”

Ian noticed. He noticed him bite his lip. Noticed his eyebrows go up when a man got flirty. He noticed him roll up the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow, looking around self-consciously before rolling them down again.

“You’re blushing,” Clare says with a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian says, standing up.

“I’m gonna put you two together again next week after we open,” Jane says. “That cool?”

“I’d like that,” Ian says, and gives Clare a smile. “Goodnight.”

Ian's still smiling when he gets back into the dining room. He sees Mickey looking into the mirror lining the wall of the bar. Mickey smiles when he sees him.

“Took you long enough,” Mickey says to the mirror. “Been waitin’.”

“You were here a long time,” Ian says to Mickey’s back before brushing his hand against it. . “Almost like you needed to keep an eye on me.”

He hears Mickey laugh, and then he spins in his stool to meet Ian’s eyes. “So?”

“You were watching me.”

“Look good,” Mickey says. “Where the fuck else am I supposed to look?”

Ian wants to kiss him. Needs to kiss him. But not here. Not yet. “Drink up,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey tongue curls against his cheek and he gives a flirty grin. “What’re you gonna do, huh?”

Ian reaches down, touching the space on the inside of Mickey’s thigh just above the knee. He drags his thumb upward. Closer. He stops and gives Mickey’s thigh a firm squeeze. Ian doesn’t say anything, but raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, voice low, throwing back the last of his whiskey. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”

It's fairly cold outside. Ian wants to take Mickey’s hand, but Mickey lights a cigarette instead. They don’t speak, but the energy that passes between them is heavy. Their feet speed up when the apartment comes into view. Mickey throws the cigarette down and Ian can’t open the door fast enough.

“Want you,” Ian says, and pushes Mickey against the row of mailboxes, kissing him hard, hands falling on his hips. Mickey hums and starts to push Ian gently away.

“Be polite,” Mickey says teasingly. “Ask me.”

Ian looks him up and down. “Will you come upstairs with me?”

Mickey tilts his head back and raises his eyebrows.

“Please,” Ian says, and he can hear the actual pleading in his voice. “Please, Mick.”

Mickey leans forward. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Ian isn’t sure how they get upstairs to his apartment without touching, but they do. He plans on keeping his hands to himself until they are inside, but then Mickey looks over his shoulder with a smirk, and Ian can’t wait any longer.

“Couldn’t take my eyes off you all night,” Ian says. He spins Mickey around by the hips and presses him against the door. Ian is close to Mickey’s face, so close he could kiss him, but he doesn’t. “You knew I was looking.”

“Yeah,” Mickey’s tongue slides against his lip. “So what?”

“So,” Ian says slowly, and reaches down and palms Mickey’s dick through his jeans. “So it’s distracting.” Ian applies more pressure to Mickey’s dick. “And it makes me want you.”

“Open the door,” Mickey pants. “Open the fucking door.”

Ian fumbles with his key, and soon the door is opening and there is Mickey again, slammed against the wall, and Ian can tell that Mickey likes the roughness. So does he.

“Thought about doing this all night,” Ian says as he sinks to his knees, fumbling with Mickey’s belt before shoving Mickey’s pants down to the floor. When he takes Mickey in his mouth, his brain short-circuits. Yes. Fuck. Mickey’s foreskin is sliding, and Ian sucks as Mickey gets harder, so much harder. He is getting high on Mickey’s scent. He works him over, quickly and thoroughly, and Mickey groans.

“Yeah, like that,” Mickey says roughly. He pushes into Ian’s mouth just a little deeper, then quickly starts to lean back, catching the impulse. “Didn’t mean to—“

Ian gives a tiny hum and presses himself down further on Mickey’s dick, the girth challenging what remains of Ian’s gag reflex in the most delicious way. Fuck, this is good. He’s reaching up to snake a hand under Mickey’s shirt when Mickey puts his hand on Ian’s shoulder, stopping him.

Mickey’s voice is almost anxious. “What the fuck is that?”

Ian turns and looks into the dark room. Then he sees them, two eyes, shining just a little from the streetlamp outside.

Mickey takes a step to the left and turns on the light.

“Just Bill,” Ian says quickly. He reaches for Mickey’s hand and pulls him back. He’s about to reach for Mickey’s dick again when Bill meows.

Ian looks over his shoulder. She’s staring right at them.

“It’s giving me the creeps,” Mickey says.

“I’ll put her in the bathroom,” Ian says, rising to his feet. “Don’t move.”

He scoops Bill up and carries her over. As he closes the bathroom door, he swears she is glaring at him.

“Where were we?” Ian can hear the excitement in his voice. Mickey is still standing there, naked from the waist down. But when Ian starts to kneel again, Mickey stops him. Ian stands up, curious, and Mickey raises his eyebrows with a smirk.

“Seems like you wanna be rough tonight, tough guy.” Mickey looks him up and down. “You’re good at pushing me around.”

Ian breathes hard. Yes, he wants to be good at this tonight. He likes it all. He wants more. His cheeks get hot. “I…I wanna play with you.”

Mickey looks at his mouth. “Yeah?”

Ian leans closer, brushing his lips against Mickey’s. “I trust you,” Ian whispers into Mickey’s mouth. “And I wanna play just like this.”

Mickey licks into Ian’s mouth, and their tongues tangle before they meet in a messy, desperate kiss. The pace is speeding up and fuck because Ian’s heart is beating and he’s alive, and he feels so fucking safe like this.

Ian’s fingers fumble with the buttons on Mickey’s shirt, but he finally gets it open. He pushes it quickly off Mickey’s shoulders and slides a hand up Mickey’s chest, up his neck, holding his face. A deep kiss, moving Mickey’s head right where he wants it. Mickey’s hands pull at Ian’s shirt, impatiently pulling it off him before it’s fully unbuttoned. He reaches for Ian again with a groan.

Ian guides Mickey backward, pushing him to sit on the end of the bed. Ian stands there, looking down, and just breathes. He knows how hungry he looks. He can see it in Mickey’s face. His flushed response. His hooded eyes. Mickey reaches for him, pulling him closer by the belt.

“Want this,” Mickey pants. “Your fuckin’ hands on me. This big fuckin’ dick.”

Ian’s belt falls undone, the zipper comes apart, the boxers and jeans come down, and Mickey leans forward to take him in his mouth.

“Wait,” Ian pants, bending away. “I don’t wanna…I don’t wanna come yet. Not yet.” He kicks off his shoes and pulls his pants off without breaking eye contact. “Lie back,” he says.

There’s a little noise of protest, but Mickey falls back on the bed, his hands beside his head, palms open. Ian’s fingers slide into Mickey’s, pinning his hands down to the mattress. He squeezes slowly, a question.

“Oh hell yeah,” Mickey says fast, nodding. Ian increases the pressure and Mickey’s eyes flutter shut. Ian’s mouth finds the side of his neck, kissing hard, starting to bite. He starts to suck.

Mickey whines. “Oh shit, Ian. Harder.“

“If I go any harder I’m gonna leave a mark,” Ian says, slowing to a kiss.

“I know,” Mickey pants. “Want you to. C’mon.”

Ian does. He sucks harder, just like Mickey wants him to. When he breaks away, Mickey licks his lips.

“Turn over.” Ian can hear the weight in his voice, the desire for Mickey’s body, for Mickey. “Wanna look at your ass.”

A sigh. Two sighs. When Mickey turns over, he reaches out to fist the blanket above his head. Ian’s hard dick presses against Mickey’s ass, and he doesn’t miss how Mickey parts his legs. “Yeah,” Ian whispers. “Yeah, do that.”

Mickey groans and opens his legs wider. Ian gives him a tiny thrust against his ass and Mickey pushes back as much as he can. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Ian thrusts again, harder this time, and his breath catches.

Ian’s mouth finds the space between Mickey’s neck and shoulder, and bites softly. He can tell Mickey is about to plead, so he starts to suck, suck harder, and starts to lean back off of Mickey, kissing down his back, just to the right of his spine. His hands follow his mouth, and when he reaches Mickey’s ass, he has an idea.

Ian can’t believe he gets to do this. He scoots down the bed and starts to move his face closer to Mickey’s ass. Ian places a full, heavy kiss against one cheek, then the other, massaging them. He lets out a hot, slow breath. He pulls Mickey’s cheeks apart and oh, fuck- Ian wants this. He wants to make Mickey shake and moan. Ian wants to feel his jaw get tired, wants to feel Mickey push back on his face, rock against his tongue, wants to—

“I don’t like it,” Mickey says suddenly, hands releasing, looking over his shoulder. “Gettin’ my ass licked.”

Ian sits up fast. “I’m sorry. I should have asked.”

Mickey shakes his head and sits up. “Would have wanted you to keep goin’,” Mickey says. “If it was my thing, I would have wanted you to keep doin’ it. Wish I liked it. But I know I don’t.” He shifts his jaw. “Sorry.”

Ian shakes his head. “No. Don’t apologize. You don’t like it. That’s fine.”

“You like it though,” Mickey says. “You like to do it.”

Ian doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t realize it’s an actual question. He shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. But it’s not a big deal to just…not.”

“I can do it to you,” Mickey says quickly. “I mean, I like doin’ it to someone. So I could, you know.”

“Hey,” Ian says. “We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to do.”

Mickey hesitates “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” Ian reaches for his hand, and Mickey takes it.

Mickey leans over, almost shyly, and kisses Ian, softly. He’s just about to speed it up when Ian pulls away.

“What about now?” Ian runs a hand up Mickey’s chest, and Mickey closes his eyes as Ian slides over his nipple. “Wanna stop?”

Mickey doesn’t open his eyes. He shakes his head. “Fuck no. Don’t wanna stop.” He opens his eyes again, raises his eyebrows. “You?”

“I don’t wanna stop either,” Ian says quietly, leaning in for a kiss, sucking on Mickey’s bottom lip. “Still wanna play?” Ian asks. He puts a hand on Mickey’s cheek. The movement is gentle at first, but when his fingers slide into Mickey’s hair he gives it a gentle pull.

Mickey breathes in sharply. “Harder.”

“Mick,” Ian says. “Do you still wanna play?”

“Y-yeah. Fuck yeah. I’m into this shit if you are.”

Ian pulls Mickey's head back, just a little, just enough.

“Are you?” Mickey pants. “Into this?”

Ian grabs Mickey’s hair harder. “Yeah,” Ian whispers in his ear. “I’m into this.”

Mickey groans as he straddles Ian’s lap and slowly rolls his hips forward.

“Fuck,” Ian whispers, grabbing his ass. At the contact, Mickey rolls his hips again. Ian grabs the back of Mickey’s neck, and Mickey throws his head back.

“Yeah, hold onto me,” Mickey pants. “My neck like that.”

Ian grips him tighter and reaches between them, eager fingers wrapping around Mickey’s thick cock.

“Yeah,” Mickey rasps. He tries to thrust into Ian’s hand but Ian holds him tighter, stilling.

“Don’t move,” Ian whispers, a squeeze on the back of the neck. “Let me do it.”

Mickey’s breath is shaky, and he closes his eyes. “Ian.”

“Tell me what you want, Mickey.” Ian twists his hand, drags his thumb over the tip.

Mickey closes his eyes tighter. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”

Ian licks up Mickey’s neck, over the bruise already forming. “Tell me.”

“W-want,” Mickey says, and Ian starts to stroke him again, slowly, patiently. “Want your fingers in my ass.”

“Oh, fuck,” Ian breathes. He lets go of Mickey’s dick and grabs his ass harder again. “Yes.”

Mickey sounds so hopeful, almost surprised. “Yeah? You want it?”

Ian groans right against Mickey's shoulder. “Please. Yeah.”

“Wanna ride ‘em,” Mickey says, and Ian bites his shoulder softly. “Those long fucking fingers, Christ.”

“Get the lube,” Ian says, gesturing to the night table with his chin. “In the drawer. Get it.”

Mickey leans back and opens the drawer quickly. He tosses the lube at Ian, who catches it and immediately pops the cap and starts to slick up his fingers.

Mickey’s tongue slides out and he bites his lip. “Not wastin’ any time.” Mickey grins and slowly pushes Ian back on the bed, leaning forward. Mickey rolls his body up and then down again, just grazing Ian’s dick.

“Shit.” Ian tries to lift his hips, but Mickey is still rocking back, then rolls his body down again, flush with Ian’s chest.

“Ian,” Mickey says, and he reaches for Ian’s slicked-up hand. The lube is ready, and so is he. “Please.”

When Ian’s first finger slides in, they both hold their breath. Mickey is so warm, and he immediately groans at the pressure. Ian is doing this. They are doing this. Feeling Mickey from the inside is overwhelming in the best way, and Ian is more than ready for it.

“Gimme two,” Mickey pleads.

Ian returns with two fingers, and MIckey’s jaw drops. Fuck, this is hot. Ian’s fingers are deep inside him, and when Mickey starts to rock, Ian can hardly keep his eyes open. But he doesn’t want to close them. Definitely not.

“Look good.” Ian’s voice is fast and breathy, He can’t believe this is happening. “Fuck, Mick, you feel so good.”

Mickey takes them in deep, grinding down, and Ian’s fingers are so long, but god, he wants to feel Mickey’s depth. Feel him to the hilt. He wants him. Like that.

“So tight,” Ian whispers. “Jesus.”

Mickey moans and leans back, and Ian has to adjust his hand, but shit, there’s his prostate, and Mickey’s eyes close as his jaw drops. “Yeah,” he pants. “Oh fuck, right there. Stretch me. More.” Mickey hisses when Ian returns with his three fingers. “Yeah. Fuck, just like that.”

Ian tips his head back on the pillow. Mickey leans back further, Ian’s fingers struggle to stay where Mickey needs them.

“The angle. It’s not—” Ian says, shaking his head. “I wanna make it good for you, but my hand isn’t working like this.”

Mickey rolls quickly on his back. “Hurry.” Mickey’s knees spread out. Ian grabs his thigh and pulls him closer to him. Mickey licks his lips. “Please.”

Ian slides his fingers back in, pumping them, curling just right. “You’re so full. Jesus. Look at you.”

“There,” Mickey gasps, rocking down against Ian’s hand. “Oh shit. There.”

“Mickey,” Ian whispers. “Tell me how I feel.”

Mickey keens and closes his eyes tight.

“Look at me,” Ian says, and Mickey does.

“You feel so good,” Mickey groans. “Know just where to push. Jesus.”

Ian speeds up, hitting his prostate every time. “You’re so fucking perfect,” Ian whispers. “So good to me.”

Mickey moans, and Ian doesn’t know if it’s his words, his fingers, or both, but he knows Mickey is close. He starts to pull Mickey’s cock just as fast.

Mickey’s eyes roll back as his back begins to bow. “Oh shit yeah,” Mickey whispers. “Fuck, m’gonna come.”

“All spread out for me. Fuck.” Ian is breathing hard, looking down at Mickey. Mickey’s pale skin, the bruise forming on his neck. Beautiful. “You’re gonna come hard. I know you will. Show me.”

“Ian!”

“Show me,” Ian grunts. “Come on, Mick. Come.”

“Ah!” Mickey lets go, his come shooting up his stomach. Ian’s jaw drops watching Mickey tremble and buck. “Oh fuck.”

Perfect.

Ian carefully removes his fingers and Mickey sighs at the loss. Ian leans down to kiss him, both hands hitting the blanket, his body hovering.

“Holy shit,” Mickey sighs. “Come on, stand up.”

“Mmm,” Ian says, not moving. “Not gonna last long.”

“Stand up.” Mickey pushes at him and gets up on all fours. Mickey’s eyes are focused on exactly what he wants. “Gimme that fucking cock. Want it in my mouth.”

Ian backs up, stands next to the bed. His dick is so hard. “Tell me first. When you come by yourself, do you imagine it’s with me?”

“Every time,” Mickey says breathily, not taking his eyes off Ian’s cock.

Ian grabs his leaking cock and traces it along Mickey’s lip. “Do you put your fingers inside yourself?”

“Y-yeah,” Mickey gasps. Ian pulls back, and Mickey actually whines. “Fuck, c’mon.”

“Okay,” Ian says, stepping forward again. “C’mere.”

Mickey takes him in, a grateful hum, sucking the head, tongue working. He begins to glide, slowly, then faster. Ian’s thumb reaches down and touches the corner of Mickey’s stretched, wet mouth. Mickey brings Ian’s hand to the back of his neck, and Ian pulls gently. Deeper. Holy fuck. He’s so deep.

“Oh, my god,” Ian gasps. He feels a tightening, and then the telltale rushing that only means one thing. “Mick, I’m gonna—”

Mickey’s mouth is tight around him, sucking. Soaked. Ian cries out when he comes. Mickey swallows, throat convulsing, and when he pulls away he breathes hard. Smiles. Sated.

“You weren’t lying,” Ian says, voice slurred, letting go of his neck.

Mickey licks his lips. “‘Bout how I love sucking cock?”

Ian cracks a smile and crawls onto the bed. “Yeah, exactly. Exactly what I was gonna say. God, you’re good.”

“Heh. Told ya.” Mickey lies down beside him.

“Thank you,” Ian says. “For all of that. For trusting me like that.”

Mickey smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “Like it rough like that sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Ian says quietly. “It’s been a while. Felt good.”

“It fuckin’ did.” Mickey stretches. He pokes at his neck. “Jesus, I think you really got me.”

Ian looks again at the large dark bruise. “Yep. Sorry.”

Mickey waves it off. “Felt good. Worth it.”

Ian chuckles warmly. He kisses Mickey quickly once, twice before pulling back slightly. “Bathroom.”

Bill is there in the bathroom, sitting in the tub, staring him down.

“Sorry, Bill,” he says. “Not used to all this sex stuff yet.”

He freezes.

Sex. He thought about it back there. But he wasn’t ready. Not really. Playing is fun, but he wants to take more time. They will take their time. They can go as slow as they need to. As they want to. They are safe. He is safe. When he’s ready, he will know it.

He uses the toilet, washes his hands. He stares at himself in the mirror, turning his head one way, then the other. Bill meows.

Mickey appears in the doorway. “Wanna take a shower?”

Ian scoops Bill out of the bathtub and sets her on the floor. She hurries out of the room when Ian turns on the water. When Ian turns back, he has trouble meeting Mickey’s eyes.

“Come on,” Mickey says playfully. “Get in here.”

The curtain opens and Mickey steps in. Ian listens to the water flow. He closes his eyes, listening. The water. His breath. He doesn’t know how long he stands there.

“You still there?” Mickey sounds confused.

Ian hesitates.

“I’m here,” Ian says. It will be easier to say it when Mickey’s not looking at him. Ian takes a deep breath. “It’s just—sometimes I get flashbacks in the shower,” he blurts out. “From when I worked at Fairy Tail. When I was…” He never says it out loud. Not like this. “When I was sex working.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t stick his head out either.

“Sometimes I remember faces,” Ian says. “Or what they said to me. Or other things they did. Things I did.”

The water runs.

Ian swallows. “The shower was the only place where no one could touch me.” Ian wonders if Mickey can hear him. “I never let anyone shower with me. Not even my regulars.”

The curtain moves, just a little. And then Mickey’s face appears. “You don’t have to get in,” he says gently. “You don’t.”

Ian takes a step forward. “I promise I won’t always be like this,” Ian says quickly. “It’s just, I don’t know, I’m like this right now. And the shower stuff, It doesn’t always happen. But sometimes it does. And I thought you should know.”

Mickey steps out of the shower. His skin is flushed from the heat of the water, and drops of water slip down his chest, arms, legs.

“What are you doing?” Ian’s eyebrows raise, his lips part.

“If it happens, I’ll be there,” Mickey says. “And you can tell me what to do.”

Ian’s mouth finds Mickey’s shoulder. Now is a time to be soft. “What if I don’t know what to do?”

Mickey pulls back, and meets Ian’s eyes. The water runs, and Mickey stands there with water dripping off him, and Ian doesn’t look away.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Mickey says. He pauses. “And then I’ll go kill all those fucking guys.”

Ian cracks a smile. It feels good. He looks over Mickey’s shoulder. The shower sounds like that sound machine in the doctor’s office. It’s comforting in its sameness, the sound enveloping them.

“What do you wanna do?” Mickey asks.

Ian looks over. “I want us to go in the shower I think.”

Mickey smiles. “Let’s go in then.” He holds the curtain back, and Ian carefully steps in.

The water is hot, but not too hot. He takes a step forward, and feels Mickey at his back. There is nothing in Ian’s mind but this moment. Mickey’s hands on him, the soap that slides against his skin. There is nothing here that hurts, nothing that he wants to take back. He looks up and sees the steam curling into the air. It rises up and disappears over the curtain like smoke.

There is a wave of relief, of something free to open and expand into the room. It’s here. All of it. They are together. Just the two of them, no room for pain, for regret. Their bodies are warm. There are no flashbacks. No sour feeling in Ian’s stomach. He is holding Mickey, and the water is falling gently over them. Warm. He feels it then. What this really is. What he really feels. Ian opens his mouth, but closes it again.

“I know,” Mickey says, biting his lip.

Ian hesitates. “Know what?”

Mickey looks down at Ian’s arms. “What you want to say.”

Ian doesn’t speak.

“I’m not ready to hear it yet,” Mickey says, looking up with wide eyes. “But maybe someday,”

Ian nods. “Okay,” he says quietly. Mickey knows. He knows him. No one has ever known him like this.

Ian shuts the water off and pulls back the curtain. Mickey steps out and hands Ian a towel. They don’t say anything, but it’s a calm silence, and Ian relaxes into it.

They put on boxers, and Ian takes his meds. It’s so late. But it’s so nice to be with Mickey, and when they slide into bed, this bed they share almost every night, Mickey hesitates, then leans up and kisses Ian’s forehead. His thumb slides against it, warm and rough, and Ian lets out a deep breath at the contact, lips parted.

Mickey settles back against his chest. “I’ll be ready someday,” Mickey says, with more certainty this time.

“I’ll be ready, too,” Ian says. He reaches for the table and shuts off the light. The dark is comforting, an expanse of calm for his eyes and his brain. He can feel Mickey beside him, so still except for his breathing. Ian traces the tattoos on Mickey’s fingers in the dark. He believes it. That someday he will be ready, that they will be ready, and they can speak all the soft words that they know.

Chapter Text

Ian loves so many things about reading, but he mostly likes the feel of a book in his hands. He loves how the pages are smooth under his fingertips, the black type soothing. Something about reading makes him breathe slower and deeper, his shoulders relaxed.

They didn’t have money to buy books growing up, but he had a library card and that was enough. He still likes the library, but he’s proud of the books he’s been able to buy. They teeter in stacks along the wall. Some old favorites sit on the bedside table. The Iliad. Pride and Prejudice. To Kill a Mockingbird.

He should get a bookshelf.

Right now he’s reading The Song of Achilles. It’s beautiful. He can already tell it will join the stack of favorites on the table. He finishes a chapter and sighs. He sets it on the nightstand and stares down at the foot of the bed. Bill is curled up near Mickey’s leg, purring. Ian’s gaze slides up, dancing over Mickey’s sleeping form until his eyes meet Mickey’s lips, softly parted.

Ian sets the book aside. He’s sitting up, his back against the headboard, so he slides back down between the covers, trying not to jostle the bed too much. As he settles back in, Mickey reaches a hand out, finding Ian’s upper arm. He doesn’t open his eyes.

Ian breathes in sharply at the contact. It’s so intimate, so familiar, and he kind of loves it. He looks at the ceiling, then turns his head to look into the kitchen. Ian sees his meds on the windowsill. He thinks about getting up to take them, but now that Mickey is touching him, he isn’t going anywhere. He smiles and looks back at Mickey.

This doesn’t seem real. Not really. It doesn’t feel possible that he could have a boyfriend. An actual boyfriend who cares about him, who he can hold and touch. Talk with. Laugh with. There were so many faces, so many names he never learned, so many bodies in the way. But that’s the past. This is now. This is the two of them in this bed, this quiet room. He reaches out a hand and places it over Mickey’s.

Mickey breathes in and slowly opens his eyes. He looks almost surprised for a minute, then relaxes. His lips spread into a smile. “The fuck you lookin’ at?”

Ian breathes out a laugh. “You’re such a morning person.”

Mickey grins. “I am though.”

Ian smiles. “I know. But I’ve been up for almost an hour. Reading.” He squeezes Mickey’s hand. “Looking at you.”

“Creepy fucker,” Mickey says.

Ian lets go of Mickey’s hand slowly and reaches for his cheek. He traces Mickey’s lip with his thumb.

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “You startin’ somethin’?

Ian grins. “Yeah.”

Mickey bites his lip before breaking into a smile. “Good.”

*

Ian was surprised that Mickey wanted to go out to breakfast. He was even more surprised when Mickey suggested a small cafe on the south side, on a gentrified street with all sorts of pretentious shops.

They had to wait outside for a long time, and Mickey didn’t say much. But now they are inside, at a small table by the window. There’s a pink flower in a tiny vase, and when Ian touches it he realizes it’s real.

Mickey doesn’t say anything. He just looks at his menu.

Ian clears his throat, but Mickey doesn’t look up. Finally he gets impatient. “What’s going on? You've been quiet since we…”

“I know. Been thinkin.” Mickey’s tongue slides against the inside of his cheek nervously. “Maybe we should talk.”

“Talk about what? What’s wrong?” Shit.

“Nothin’s wrong,” Mickey says, leaning forward. “It’s just since last night somethin’s been on my mind and I didn’t know how to start tellin’ you. But I’m just gonna say it.”

Ian swallows and tilts his head. “Okay.”

Mickey doesn’t meet his eyes. He shrugs one shoulder. “Wanna talk about what else we don’t want.”

Ian squints. “What we don’t want?”

“Yeah,” Mickey lowers his voice. “Like what we don’t wanna do. Stuff like me not wantin’ my ass licked.”

Ian leans forward too. “So you mean, like, sex stuff?”

Mickey nods.

“O…kay,” Ian says slowly. “So—”

“Good morning!” The waitress pours water in their glasses from a carafe and smiles. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” Ian says, trying to switch gears in his head and failing. “Um, yeah. Two coffees.”

“Coming right up,” she says with a smile, and heads toward the kitchen.

Ian leans forward. He looks around the restaurant. It’s so full, and loud enough that he knows they won’t be heard.

“So, like…” Ian begins. “What do you mean?”

“Wanna know what’s off the table for you,” Mickey says, leaning forward too. “What you don’t like. Want you to tell me.”

The walls are pink and the window has a white lacy curtain and there are blue plates on the wall and—

“Hey. You okay?” Mickey nudges Ian’s foot under the table. “You don’t gotta tell me. It’s okay. We can just sit.”

“No, it’s okay.” Ian takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I wanna tell you. It’s just hard.” He focuses somewhere over Mickey’s shoulder before bringing his gaze back. “It feels like it’s a lot. It used to not be a lot, but—”

“S’okay,” Mickey says. “You can tell me.”

Ian folds his hands on the table. “It’s changed,” Ian says. “Things I used to be okay with, I’m not anymore. Not after, you know.” He swallows. “And maybe I’ll be okay with them again someday, but not now.”

Mickey’s eyes are steady on his. “Like what?”

Ian looks at his hands. It’s hard to say right to Mickey’s face. “Like…I don’t want my face fucked,” he says quietly. “I used to like that. I don’t anymore. I don’t like when I can’t control the pace. And I don’t like having my head held down tight when they come.”

“They?” Mickey’s voice is soft.

Ian clears his throat. “The guys. I don’t—” He takes a deep breath. “I mean I didn’t like that. So I don’t know if I will ever be able to do that again. Have my face fucked.”

Mickey nods, and for a moment they are quiet. The din of voices around them, the bright window, the smells from the kitchen. Ian is aware of all of it.

When the woman’s arm swoops down they both lean back, startled. She fills the cups quickly. “You ready to order?” Her voice is bright and friendly.

“Um,” Ian says, looking from her to Mickey and back again.

“Just coffee,” Mickey says.

“Um,” Ian says again. “Yeah, just coffee.”

She wrinkles her eyebrows. The place is busy. Ian is hungry. He doesn’t know what Mickey’s doing, but he goes with it.

“O…kay,” she says slowly. “If you change your mind, let me know.” She heads toward the kitchen.

They don’t speak at first. Mickey pulls his hand up again and drums his fingers on the table.

“You aren’t hungry?” Ian asks.

Mickey shrugs. “This place is making me nervous. Too fancy.”

Ian nods. “We can grab a burrito from down the street. Do you wanna go now?”

“Nah,” Mickey says. “Let’s finish the coffee first.”

It’s quiet again.

“What about you?” Ian searches Mickey’s eyes. “What else is a limit?”

Mickey pulls his hand away slowly and slips it under the table. “Don’t always like gettin’ hit.”

Ian’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. “Mickey, why would I—”

“Like. Ya know,” Mickey shrugs. “Spanked, I guess. Sometimes it’s okay. Sometimes it’s not fuckin’ okay.” He blinks his eyes fast. “I get to choose.”

“Yeah,” Ian says quietly.

“Can’t do it without me saying so,” Mickey says. His words are rough, but his voice is getting tired. “One guy kept slapping my ass and thighs until I turned around and punched him in the fucking face. Exactly why I don’t like to bottom in fucking prison. Fucker thought he could do whatever he wanted.”

Ian wants to take his hand again. Do something. But he doesn’t.

“And I don’t like gettin’ called a faggot,” Mickey says. “Specially not when someone’s fuckin’ me.” He suddenly looks at Ian sharply, almost challenging.

“I wouldn’t,” Ian says, and he’s startled at the firmness of his voice. “I wouldn’t do that. I don’t like that either.”

“Mm,” Mickey grunts. He shifts his jaw.

Ian breathes in deeply, lets it out. “I don’t like—I don’t like being called a slut.”

There’s a pause. “Okay,” Mickey says quietly.

“I mean it,” Ian says firmly. “Not ever. Even if we’re playing.”

Mickey looks up at him slowly. “I won’t.”

“And I don’t wanna call you one,” Ian’s voice is quick and sharp. “I just—I don’t want any of that.”

Mickey nods.

“I’m sorry if that’s something you like. Or want,” Ian says carefully. “I just can’t do it.”

“It’s okay,” Mickey says. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian says quickly. “Sounds like you like it. Is it—”

“Naw, don’t worry about it.” Mickey waves him off.

“I mean, maybe someday I—

“Ian,” Mickey’s voice is firm, but kind. “You don’t have to.”

Ian looks down. He fights the apology on his lips. When he looks up, Mickey is looking at him. A soft smile, a nod.

“And I really don’t like being called a bitch.” Ian clenches his jaw. “I’m nobody’s bitch.”

Mickey’s mouth opens a little, but he doesn’t say anything.

“If I’m called anything, I just want my own name for once,” Ian says, and he starts to soften. “My real name.”

“Yeah.” Mickey nods. “I bet.”

Ian takes a sip of his coffee. “What else is off the table?”

Mickey raps the table once. “Nothin’. That’s it. You?”

Ian sets the coffee cup down. “I think that’s it.”

Ian reaches for Mickey’s hand again, and Mickey lets Ian slide his fingers in his.

“I wanna talk about what you do like,” Ian says quietly. “Let’s talk about what’s is on the table.”

The restaurant is noisy, but Ian can still hear Mickey breathe out slowly.

“What do you like in bed?” Ian tightens his grip a little.

“I like that,” Mickey says. “Tight like that.”

“I noticed,” Ian says. “When we were playing. How you like your hands held hard, held down a little. Right?”

Mickey’s eyes are wide as he nods. “Yeah. Fuckin’ like that a lot. Bein’ held hard anywhere. Makes me feel, kinda…You know. Like I don’t have to think so hard.”

“Like, getting out of your head?” Ian tightens, just a little bit more.

Mickey licks his lips. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Mickey,” Ian begins slowly, cautiously. “Do you like when someone else is in charge?”

Mickey bites his lip, releases. “What?”

“When someone else helps you get out of your head? Do you like to,” should he say it? “be kind of…”

“A sub?” Mickey says quietly. “That’s what it’s called, right?”

Ian can hardly breathe. He nods slowly.

“Don’t know if I’d call it that,” Mickey says. “But I like bein’ topped. And I like my tops to act like a fucking top. I can power bottom with the best of em, but I don’t want my top to act like a pussy.”

Ian fights a grin.

“What.”

“I promise to not act like a pussy,” Ian says.

Mickey lets a smile escape along with a raise of his eyebrows. “You’re a good fuckin’ top. Already know that about you just from what we been doin’ so far.”

“Yeah? What have you liked?”

“You holdin’ me,” Mickey says. “You tellin’ me when I can come. When you grabbed my ass and said…”

“Said what?”

Mickey’s blushing. Actually blushing. “When you said that you bet I take it so good.”

Ian blinks at him. His dick is interested in this conversation. Very interested. “I bet you do,” he says. He raises an eyebrow. “With an ass like that, I’m sure you do.”

Mickey huffs a laugh, an embarrassed little glance to the right.

Ian leans over and catches Mickey’s glance with his, drawing their eyes back to the center. “I wanna make you feel good.”

Mickey smiles. “You do. Always do.”

Ian nudges his foot under the table.

Mickey nudges him back. “What makes you feel good?”

“I wanna push into you slowly,” Ian says. “So I can watch everything. The stretch. Your ass. If you’re on your hands and knees I can pull you apart.”

“Shit.”

“Or on your back,” Ian raises an eyebrow. “That’s what I’d really want. I’d want you on your back so I can see the look on your face when I move. Watch how it feels for you.”

Mickey huffs out a breath, woozy.

“Sometimes it takes a minute,” Ian says. “My size. It can take time to adjust. Get it in where it’s comfortable.”

“I can take it,” Mickey says quietly. “Wanna take it.”

Ian hums with a smile, a quick glance at Mickey’s mouth.

“Wanna tell you somethin’,” Mickey says. “Never taken a,” he looks around the restaurant and drops his voice. “Never taken one as big as you got. Thought a lot about it though.”

Ian nods. His dick throbs. He wonders if Mickey is hard too. “I’ll help you.”

Mickey bites his lip. “Know you will.”

“How do you like it?” Ian hardly breathes when he says it. The coffee is getting cold. Forgotten.

“Hard,” Mickey says firmly, a little louder, then drops his voice again. “Even if we’re goin’ slow, I want it hard.”

Ian closes his eyes and opens them slowly. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Bet you can make me come untouched,” Mickey raises an eyebrow. “You think you can do that?”

“Fuck.” Ian nods fast. He looks around the restaurant again. “Need to get you somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He throws some cash on the table. “Right fuckin’ now.”

“Where are we gonna go?” Ian’s voice is low, his dick is hard. He covers himself with his coat as he stands.

Mickey pauses. “My house.”

The house Mickey hates. The one he’s never wanted to go to.

“Are you sure?” Ian reaches out a hand but Mickey doesn’t take it.

“It’ll be fine,” Mickey says, and he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “Let’s go.”

*

The door isn’t locked. It doesn’t even look like it works. Paint is peeling everywhere. Garbage on the porch.

“It’s a shithole,” Mickey says when they go in. The living room has crap everywhere,

Ian doesn’t try to make him feel better about it. Doesn’t try to say it isn’t true. There’s no way he could spin this in a positive light.

“Sister just moved out,” Mickey says. “Moved with a friend to Minneapolis. So it’s just me and all this.” He gestures quickly with one hand to a pile of what looks like tools and car parts mixed in with broken chairs. “Don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”

Ian has trouble meeting Mickey’s eyes. He doesn’t really know why. It’s just sad here. It’s not like the Mickey he knows at all. The fire they had at the restaurant is gone. Now it’s an unnerving feeling, like being watched from a dark corner.

“Anyways,” Mickey says finally. “We can go to my room.”

His room isn’t any better, and when they carefully lie down on the messy bed, it smells bad. Mickey shoves some clothes onto the floor with his feet and leans over Ian.

“Now you can see why I don’t wanna come here,” Mickey says. “It’s like being fuckin’ dead.”

Ian carefully slides a hand up Mickey’s arm, cupping around his neck. “You deserve so much better than this.”

Mickey sniffs and looks away. “Doesn’t matter,” he says.

“Hey,” Ian says, sliding his hand up the back of Mickey’s head. Mickey turns to look back. “I mean it.”

“Won’t be here long anyways.” Mickey shrugs and lies down beside Ian, staring at the ceiling. “Only a matter of time before I do somethin’ stupid. A fight or some shit.”

“Then don’t.” Ian turns on his side. “Don’t get in a fight.”

“Hey,” Mickey snaps. “If someone pushes me I’m gonna push back.”

“You don’t have to. You don’t need to fight.”

Mickey sighs. He turns on his side too.

“Because I don’t want you to go back in,” Ian continues carefully. “I…I need you with me. You’re good for me.”

“Not good for anybody.” Mickey is quiet. Defeated. “Look at this place. This is who I am.”

“No,” Ian says firmly. “This is just where you come from.”

Mickey rolls onto his back again. Stares at the ceiling. “Don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this shit. Don’t know how to get out of it. Want to just leave it all to the rats and never come back. Let it all fuckin’ fall down.”

Ian studies Mickey’s profile, the slope of his nose, his lips. “There’s gotta be someone who wants to buy it.”

Mickey scoffs. “This piece of shit? Why?”

“For the land,” Ian says. “The lot. Some developers. That’s what they did with our house and two others next to us. Knocked it all down and built townhouses.”

“How’d that happen?” Mickey is confused.

“A lady came to our house,” Ian said. “Talked to Lip. Made an offer. 75k. He took it. My sister was pissed. But we all got some money.” He pauses. “But I gave my share to Lip. He needed it more than I did. He’s gonna sell his house soon and pay me back out of that.”

Mickey pauses. “You gave away your money?”

Ian shrugs. It still doesn’t really make sense to him either.

“I didn’t need it,” Ian says. “Not like Lip did. I couldn’t just let him and Tammi and Fred be on the street. I kept some to get my apartment and some furniture and stuff, a little in the bank, but I had a lot from, you know, working. From my overnights especially. And one guy paid me for almost a whole week. That lasted a while.” He swallows. He tries not to think about all the things he had to do for that money. He’s tried to block it out entirely, but here it comes just the same, rising out of the dirt. “So I let Lip have it. Just for now. But honestly, I’m kind of glad. It made me nervous thinking about having that much. I’ll get it back. He’s gonna hold onto his house for one more year and then sell it. They keep talking about moving to Milwaukee.”

“Still,” Mickey says.

“Yeah,” Ian takes a deep breath. “I know. And the thing is, the lady wasn’t even the developer. She just had the money. Cash. She turned around and sold it for way more than that. Lip was pissed. He doesn’t let people fuck him over like that. He just really needed the money. Didn’t think it through.”

“Shit, I’d take anything for this place,” Mickey says. “It’s been in my family a long fucking time. My dad was fucking born inside this house. Right in this room even. So it’s paid off.”

Ian lifts himself up on his arm and looks down at Mickey again. “We have to sell it. You could get some money to start over. There has to be a way to find someone to buy it.”

“Maybe.” Mickey suddenly doesn’t look so sure. Something like nervousness settles over him. “I don’t know.”

“Do you know where the deed is? Like the paperwork for the house?”

Mickey huffs out an almost sarcastic laugh. “Do I look like I know? Look at this place.”

Ian doesn’t say anything. In his mind, he tries to figure out how they could do this without one. Where they could get one. The city? Shit, it would probably take a long time. Everything takes too long.

“We can figure it out,” Ian says, trying to convince himself. “There’s gotta be something.”

It’s quiet. Mickey doesn’t move. He doesn’t even meet Ian’s eyes. He keeps them pressed on the ceiling.

“Mick.”

Mickey looks over at Ian. His eyes look watery, just a little bit. “What.”

Ian carefully leans over him and slides his fingers against his hair. Close to that scar again, but he doesn’t realize it until Mickey pushes his hand off.

“Quit it.” Mickey spits. “Leave it alone.”

Ian sits up. “I didn’t mean to,” he says. “I forgot. I was just trying to…comfort you I guess.”

“Don’t. I’m fine.” And Mickey has closed himself off again, just like that.

Ian feels like he should stand up, so he does. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Come back to my place. This is—”

“This is what?” Mickey sits up, voice harsh.

“This is…bad.”

“You think you’re better than me?”

Ian feels his eyes widen. What is happening? “N-no. Look, I just. I don’t know. I feel like we should get out of here.”

Mickey clenches his jaw, shifts it. “Think less of me? Now that you see me like this? What, you think I wanna live like this?”

“This place is gonna kill you,” Ian says loudly. “This is a shithole, Mick! And it just reminds you of all the times your dad—”

“Don’t talk about my fucking dad,” Mickey spits.

Ian puts his hands up. ‘I’m just—” He sighs sharply. “He hurt you. And I feel like this place makes all of what happened worse. I mean, look at it.”

Mickey glares at him. “You don’t get to judge me for this. You think I want this?”

“No, I know you don’t want this.”

“Then stop fucking judging me,” Mickey shouts. He pauses, then opens his mouth again. “Because I could judge you for some of the shit you’ve done.”

Fuck.

Ian can hardly keep the scream in. It was only a matter of time before it was thrown back at him. He was stupid to believe it could have been otherwise.

“Wait,” Mickey says quickly. “Ian, I didn’t mean it. Not like that. I didn’t mean the—“

Ian breathes in sharply. “I’m gonna go.”

Mickey scrambles off the bed. “Shit. I just meant, I didn’t mean it like that. ‘S like you touching my scar. I didn’t mean to do it.” Mickey doesn’t reach for him, but he looks like he wants to.

Ian doesn’t want him to.

“Fuck you,” Ian says. “Don’t call me.”

The front door is still open. They never even bothered to close it. Ian doesn’t close it behind him. He just walks out of it, down the steps, into the street. His feet hit fast as he runs. He runs faster than the tears can catch him.

He runs until he’s standing in front of a house that used to be his. No. Not the house that used to be his. Just a place. Just a townhouse. He doesn’t recognize anything. Not a window. Not a door. He looks down and looks at the muddy yard. He used to play there, on that same ground, but it looks different now. Everything is different now.

He sees a little girl looking out the window, staring out at him. He lifts his hand to wave, but thinks better of it.

He turns and runs. He runs until he reaches the same train he’s been riding his whole life. He waits on the platform, the tears falling now, and he doesn’t wipe them away. The train pulls up and he steps on, and the doors close.

Ian pants, chest heaving from his run. His breath is tight. His throat dry. Ian brings a hand to his chest, trying to calm his lungs. He can’t catch his breath.

Shit.

He can’t breathe.

Oh, shit.

There’s a man with a red coat and there’s an ad with a white background and there’s another ad with blue letters and there’s a woman in black pants and someone with green hair and oh shit oh shit oh shit it’s not working.

Breathe.

There is air in here, right? Oxygen? There has to be. Some part of him knows that. Knows it’s fine.

It’s fine.

It’s not fine.

The train is hot. He needs it to stop. He needs a window open. He needs it to stop.

“You okay, man?” A guy stands up, offering his seat next to the door. He has a Bulls hat on, red and black. “You should sit down.”

Ian doesn’t remember actually sitting down, but then he can feel the seat beneath him. He cups his hands over his mouth and tries to breathe into them. He closes his eyes and it’s worse, so he opens them again. But then everything is whittling down to a small spiral, so he closes them again.

“I’m an EMT,” he hears a woman’s voice say.

“He fell onto the seat,” the man says. “I don’t know what happened.”

The voice is closer. “Honey, I’m an EMT. Can you hear me?” He feels a hand on his knee. “Can you open your eyes?”

Ian can’t. Fuck. He can’t.

“What’s your name?”

He can’t speak. He can’t breathe.

The man’s voice. “Is he having a heart attack?”

Ian opens his eyes fast. Is he? Is he having a heart attack?

No. He knows what it is.

“Here,” the EMT says. “Let’s just lean back and give him a little room.”

Ian realizes the man is leaning over him, staring. The man backs up and holds onto a pole nearby. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“Yes,” she says. “He’ll be okay. We’re just gonna hang out and breathe a minute. Hon, can you look at me?”

Ian does. He can feel the train moving. Why isn’t it stopping? It should be stopping by now.

“That’s it,” she says soothingly. “Good. Hi. I’m Sue. What’s your name?”

“Ian,” he pants.

“Have you had a panic attack before?” He looks down and looks at her hand on his knee. It looks far away.

Ian nods fast. Shit. He feels like his body isn’t even real.

“Ian, this will pass. Can you see me?”

Her eyes are brown. She still looks far away. He nods.

“Can you bring your hands down from your face so I can take a look?”

He didn’t realize he still had them around his mouth. When he brings them down he can breathe better.

Sue smiles. “Good. Can I call someone for you?”

Lip? No. Ian shakes his head.

“Does he need to go to the hospital?” The man is still staring at him. “What’s a panic attack?”

Ian shakes his head harder. “No hospital,” he pants. “I don’t wanna go to the hospital. Please no.”

“Just keep breathing,” Sue says. “You’re doing great.”

Sue is wearing a blue shirt. There’s a patch on it. Red and white.

“That’s it,” Sue’s voice is softer. “There you go.”

There is air again. He can see better. The man is still staring at him, but she’s smiling. The train is slowing down.

“When it stops I wanna get off,” he says quickly. “I need to get off the train.”

She nods. “I’m going to get off with you. I just have to make a call.”

The train rolls to a stop and she takes his arm, guides him out of the seat and toward the door.

“Good luck, man,” the guy says, and sits down again.

“Yeah,” Ian says quietly.

He doesn’t really remember walking down the stairs, or waiting on the curb much, but when the ambulance pulls up he tries to walk away.

“Don’t worry,” Sue says, taking a step toward him. “Just slow down. I think you’re still having the attack.”

The back door of the ambulance opens, and Ian shakes his head.

“I don’t want to go in there,” he says, eyes wild. “Once I had to go in one and I didn’t like it.”

“Just to check you out,” Sue says. “I’ll be with you the whole time. Come on.”

Ian hesitates, but follows her to the ambulance.

“Okay Ian, just lie back,” she says. He lies back on the bed. The doors stay open. The ambulance does not move. “Just going to sit with you for a minute.” Sue puts a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have emergency medication with you?”

“Not on me,” he says. “I don’t. I don’t have anything.” Ian shakes his head.

He hears his doctor’s voice in his head. Advocate for what you need, Ian.

Ian’s voice is shaking. “Do you—I might need something.”

“You got it. Any allergies?”

“No,” Ian’s eyes search her face, the kindness and sureness of her actions comforting. He sees her preparing a needle and fumbles with his shirt.

“It’s not too strong,” she says. “Just for acute moments. It will take the edge off, not knock you out.”

“Thanks,” Ian says, fighting a flinch when the needle goes in. Soon he feels a wave of relief, settling into himself. Relaxation, but it’s not like when he had to go to the hospital. Not like the one that shoved his brain full of what felt like oatmeal.

He realizes she’s put a blood pressure cuff on him when he feels the squeeze. It releases and he breathes.

“A little high,” Sue says. “That’s to be expected though.”

A man’s voice from the front. “How’re we doing?”

“Doing better.” Sue touches his arm. “You can get your shirt on.”

Ian’s arm feels a little heavy, but he puts it back on. “Do I have to go in?”

“I’d like you to be observed,” she says. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Ian says quietly. “Maybe.”

“Let’s just make sure,” Sue says. “They’ll probably let you go soon.”

Ian hesitates. “I don’t want to go back to the psych ward. I want to talk to my doctor.”

She nods. “Let’s call your doctor on the way.” She looks up front. “Mike, we’re gonna go,”

“Got it,” the guy calls back, and pulls away from the curb.

*

He was sleeping when the ER doctor came in, but woke quickly. A good sign. Sue was right. No oatmeal brain. He’s had enough of that in his life.

They let him go since his blood pressure was stable and he was clear-headed. Ian feels a little sheepish about being there, and he doesn’t want to think about how much it’s going to fucking cost. But that was the longest panic attack he’s had. He feels exhausted.

Ian doesn’t call a Lyft. He sure as fuck isn’t going to take the train or bus. He doesn’t want to be with strangers in case it happens again. At the same time, he isn't in the mood to be judged, or feel like he did it to himself. Lip promises he doesn’t do that. And Ian knows that in reality, Lip doesn’t. But he feels fragile. So he doesn’t call Lip.

He can’t call Mickey. Mickey called when he was sleeping, and he didn’t answer. He didn’t answer the first time. He didn’t answer the second time, or the third.

Fuck it. It’s not like Mickey has a car, anyway. Ian lets out a heavy breath as he scrolls through his contacts. Does he have the number? He does.

Rex answers right away.

“Eatin’ dinner,” Rex mumbles. He sounds like he has his mouth full.

“Sorry,” Ian says. “I just really need a big favor.”

Rex grunts. Ian can hear him chewing.

Ian hesitates. “I’m at…I’m at the hospital and I need a ride home. I don’t know who to call.” Ian looks at the sky. Snow is falling again, lightly. Of course it’s falling. He was foolish to think winter was over for good. There’s always that last snow, interrupting early spring, just to fuck with them.

“Wait, why are you at the hospital?” Rex’s mouth is full again.

“I had a panic attack,” Ian blurts out. Why lie? “A bad one.”

Rex pauses. He must swallow, because his voice is clear. “Saw something about that on TV. Sopranos.”

“Yeah,” Ian says quietly. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called. I don’t know why. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Ian.”

“You’re eating. I can take a car.”

“Ian,” Rex says.

“Seriously,” Ian says. “You don’t have to.”

He hears something slam. A car door?

“Hey. I’m on my way. Which hospital?”

*

There must be traffic, but when a beat-up car pulls up Ian is relieved. The window rolls down before it has come to a complete stop. Rex leans over.

“Hey, teach.” Rex smiles.

Ian opens the door, a small smile. The car is warm and clean, and Ian sighs when he settles in the seat. “You have my address?”

Rex shakes his phone. “Got your text.”

“Thanks for coming,” Ian says.

“Happy to help.” Rex shifts the car into gear. “But what about your boyfriend?”

Ian hesitates. “Doesn’t have a car.” He looks out the window and watches the emergency room sign slide behind them. He takes a deep breath. Opens his mouth.

“What happened?”

“It started on the train. It was really bad. But there was an EMT and she—”

“I mean with you two,” Rex says. “You and Mickey. What happened?”

Ian rubs his hands on his knees. Is it that obvious? “It happened so fast,” he says. “I’m still not sure. We both said some things we shouldn’t have, and I don’t know where we stand now. I told him not to call me, but he did.”

They come to a stoplight, and Rex turns to look at him. “What did he say?”

Ian takes a deep breath. “I didn’t answer. And I didn’t listen to the voicemails either.”

“What if he wants to say sorry?” Rex looks him right in the eyes, even in the dim light. “You should listen to it.”

“Phone’s dead anyway,” Ian says. “Died after I texted you my address.”

Rex reaches for a cord tangled around the gearshift. Ian plugs it in.

“What did you fight about? Couldn’’t have been that bad,” Rex says.

Ian hesitates again. “I reminded him of what happened in the past. And he thinks I was judging him for how he lives.”

Rex nods as the light turns green. “I picked him up from that place once,” he says. “Looks like it’s gonna fall apart any second. Depressing shit.”

“I didn’t mean to offend him,” Ian says. “But I guess I did. And it reminded him of stuff he wants to forget.” He feels weird. He shouldn’t say it. He knows he shouldn’t.

“Getting the shit kicked outta him his whole life?” Rex asks.

“Did he—“

“Nah,” Rex grips the steering wheel harder. “Just takes one to know one”

“Yeah,” Ian says, just as quietly. Rex is taking the side streets, weaving his way through neighborhoods. Ian looks out at the houses, lights on in the windows.

“Then what?”

“Then he said something about my past. Something he shouldn’t have.” Ian swallows hard, past the lump starting to form in his throat. “He seemed like he accepted it. Accepted it was part of me. But I guess he was lying or something.”

Rex grunts a little hum. “What’d you do?”

Ian clenches and unclenches his hands. “I worked at this club,” he says carefully. “And I did things. I was…a prostitute, I guess.”

“A what?” Rex looks over, and Ian looks away. “Seriously?”

Ian doesn’t say anything. Great. He needs to get out of this fucking car. “Stop the car,” he says.

“Wait.” Rex reaches for Ian’s bicep. Rex’s hand is so big. The movement startles Ian, but he doesn’t pull his arm away. “I was just surprised. Don’t get mad.”

“I said stop the car,” Ian says again, but with less certainty.

“No.” Rex gives his arm a quick squeeze before letting go. “It’s okay. Just tell me.”

“Fine. I fucked guys for money,” Ian snaps. “Blew guys for money. Lots of guys. I don’t even have a number. Every fucking day. Every fucking night. You happy? That’s what I did. And I can’t take it back. And I can’t pretend it didn’t fuck me up. And it broke me down, okay? But there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“Okay,” Rex says softly. Slowly. “I gotcha, I gotcha.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” Ian says again, almost to himself.

“Yeah,” Rex’s voice it’s kind. He doesn’t say anything else.

Ian looks out the window again. “Why aren’t you taking the freeway?”

“Thought you’d like to look at the city this way,” Rex says, straightening up in his seat. “It’s a nice city. I like taking the long way.”

Ian sighs. “I’ve seen enough of this place. I wanna get far away from this someday. Everything reminds me of something. I should start over. Save some money and get out.”

“Mickey can’t leave though,” Rex says. “You know he can’t leave yet. He couldn’t go with you.”

Ian doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look at Rex, doesn’t even turn his head. He just watches the city pass by. Five minutes. Ten.

There’s a buzz, and Ian turns his head. His phone is alive and ringing. Mickey.

“Answer it,” Rex says. “Come on.”

“No.” Ian sets the phone down again. “I’m not ready to talk to him.”

Rex makes a right turn so suddenly Ian grabs for the handle. “I bet he’s at your place. “I’ll take the freeway.”

“Rex, come the fuck on.” Ian rubs his hand over his face. “I’m not sure I’m ready to—”

“Tough shit,” Rex says. “He’s there and he’s waiting. I know it.”

Ian doesn’t say anything else. He closes his eyes and leans his head back. Breathes.

Before long, the car is slowing down. When Ian opens his eyes, he’s in front of his apartment. Ian’s eyes focus on the front door, on the figure standing there in the snow.

Mickey.

“Forgive each other,” Rex says. “Life’s way too short.”

“I don’t know how,” Ian looks over at Rex. “I don’t know what to say.”

Rex gestures with his chin. “You two have a way about you,” he says. “Connected. You’ll know what to do.”

Ian takes a deep breath. He unplugs his phone and stares at it. Mickey called 11 times.

“Okay,” he says softly. He takes a deep breath and reaches for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Any time,” Rex says. “Good luck.”

Ian shuts the door, but Rex doesn’t immediately pull away. Ian turns, but doesn’t move.

“Why'd you call him?” Mickey’s voice is harsh but curious.

“I was at the hospital,” Ian says evenly. “I called Rex to pick me up. Didn’t want to be with some random person I didn’t know in case something else happened.”

Mickey’s cigarette is paused partway to his mouth. “Somethin’ else? Whaddya mean?”

“Had a panic attack on the train,” he says, “After we fought.”

Mickey brings the cigarette to his mouth. There’s a sound behind Ian, and it’s Rex starting to pull away. Ian watches him go and shoves his hands in his pockets.

Ian breathes out. “Why are you here?”

Mickey blows out the smoke. Looks down. Shifts his jaw. “Can we go in? Been out here a while.”

Ian doesn’t respond.

“Please,” Mickey’s voice is quiet. “Wanna talk.”

Ian pauses. He doesn’t say anything, but slowly heads toward the door. Mickey steps back and Ian unlocks it quickly, stepping in before Mickey can say anything else.

But Mickey doesn’t. He quietly follows Ian up the stairs, quietly waits for him to open his apartment door.

Bill breaks the silence, meowing until Ian enters the kitchen. There’s the tinkling sound of dry cat food hitting the ceramic bowl. But Ian doesn’t smile, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t respond to her or Mickey in any way. He walks over to the kitchen window and reaches for his meds. He can see Mickey’s reflection, and suddenly he just feels so tired.

They didn’t mean it. They both didn’t. And they both know it. He takes the caps off his meds and shakes them into his palm. He reaches in the cabinet for a glass and fills it with water, popping the pills into his mouth and swallowing. The glass makes a little noise when he sets it down on the counter.

Ian turns. Mickey is right in front of him, shifting his feet and licking his lip. Ian watches him with wide eyes. Shit. Mickey is so beautiful, and he was just so scared when Ian pressed on him about everything. And yeah, Mickey lashed out, but he didn’t mean it. Ian knows this. But Ian doesn’t know how to say it. He can’t speak.

Mickey takes a step forward. “I’m sorry about what I said,” Mickey says. “I didn’t—”

“I know.”

“I’m serious.” Mickey tells him firmly. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I shouldn’t have pressed you so hard,” Ian looks into Mickey’s blue eyes. “It’s not that easy to just walk away.”

“I wanna walk away,” Mickey says. “You were right. I can’t stay there. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I know I can’t be there anymore.”

“Stay here,” Ian’s voice is quiet. “You can stay here.”

Mickey bites his lip.

“I want you here,” Ian says.

Mickey’s eyes are wide. “Ian.”

Ian’s hands slide against Mickey’s hips, starting to hold him, pull him just a tiny bit closer.

“I don’t want you to go,” Ian whispers. He looks at Mickey’s mouth.

And then it happens. Ian doesn’t know who moves first. He only knows that when Mickey’s mouth is on his, their kiss feels new. Their lips are moving, speaking a different language, a softer language. Their tongues slide effortlessly, tasting. The kiss deepens, and god, Ian’s hands are everywhere. Mickey’s lower back. His ass.

Mickey’s hands start to move, and then he’s pushing Ian’s shirt up, pulling it over his head and gliding his hands up Ian’s chest, his fingers sliding into the hair there, then holding Ian tighter by the shoulders. Mickey pushes Ian against the sink and peels off his own shirt. Ian’s eyes feel heavy when he looks at Mickey’s bare chest, his stomach, tripping over Mickey’s belt buckle. Yeah. That has to go.

Ian’s hands drop to Mickey’s belt, slowly pulling it free and unzipping his jeans, pulling them down around his hips. Ian kisses Mickey’s neck, and he can feel Mickey’s breath speeding up.

Mickey’s hands drop to Ian’s pants and he starts to open them. Mickey’s hand immediately shoves into Ian’s boxers, and then Mickey is finding him, swiping his thumb over Ian’s tip before holding onto him firmly. Ian’s knees threaten to buckle. He pulls away from Mickey’s neck and grabs Mickey’s wrist gently. A tiny noise of lost pleasure, but they need to wait.

“C’mere.” Ian pulls on Mickey’s hand, guiding him to the bed. Mickey sits, and Ian stands, looking down at him.

Ian pulls his own pants off, letting his cock free. Mickey’s eyes focus on it before his hand raises, reaching. Ian stops him. “Not yet,” he says.

He gently pushes Mickey back on the bed and reaches for his pants, pulling them off in one motion. Mickey’s hands are sliding up Ian’s arms, his shoulders, hooking around Ian’s neck. The world feels small, and intimate, and Ian has never felt closer to Mickey.

“I wanna have sex with you,” Ian whispers.

Mickey’s breath slows. “Yeah,” he whispers back. “Yeah, me too.”

“Now,” Ian says. “I want to right now.”

Mickey’s eyes are wide. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Ian’s lips meet Mickey’s neck again. A kiss, a slide of his tongue.

Mickey gasps as he grips Ian’s back. “Fuck, Ian.”

His name. His real name. Not Curtis. His name, so sure in Mickey’s mouth. Ian’s head rises from his neck and starts to kiss his chest. Mickey’s skin is so soft, so pale, and when he reaches a nipple he looks up, looking for permission.

“Yeah,” Mickey says.

Ian hums as his mouth covers a nipple, licking and sucking. Mickey groans, his fingers sliding into Ian’s hair. “Teeth,” Mickey whispers, and Ian gives just the smallest drag of his teeth. Mickey holds his hair harder. “Yeah,” he pants. “Oh, fuck yeah.”

Ian continues on the other nipple. Then, when Mickey is shaking, he starts to kiss down his chest, his stomach, until his face is against Mickey’s cock. He breathes him in before taking the tip in his mouth. Mickey is leaking, and Ian sucks, so grateful to be really present, the scent and taste of Mickey so inviting. Ian moves up and down, tongue sliding over him, making Mickey moan.

“Ya gotta,” Mickey pants. “I don’t wanna come yet. Already gettin’ too close.”

Ian pulls off and rises up, kissing Mickey fiercely. Mickey’s hand cradles his face, thumb gently pushing down his chin so they can slot together better. When they finally pull apart, Ian presses his forehead against Mickey’s. The question in Ian’s eyes, the answer in Mickey’s.

Ian reaches for the nightstand drawer. The lube is right where he left it, and the condoms wait for him too. He pulls them both out and tosses them on the bed. Mickey glances over.

“Do you still wanna use a condom if we’re clean?” Mickey’s voice is small but ragged.

Ian pauses. He hadn’t thought of that really. “I mean, I have them anyway. Wasn’t sure if you’d want me to-"

“Yeah. I want ya to.” Mickey nods. He spreads his legs wider. “Wanna feel you come inside me.”

The thought turns Ian on, and fuck, he’d like it too. He pulls back just enough to pull lightly at Mickey’s lower lip with his teeth. “Okay,” he says. He grins and grabs the condom, throwing it somewhere in the room.

Mickey laughs lightly. Ian does too, having fun in this soft moment. Ian reaches for the lube and Mickey’s laugh turns to a sigh. Mickey looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

“What is it?” Ian pauses, the cap popped off the lube, already sitting back.

“Nothin,” Mickey says quietly. “Just happy.”

Ian’s smile spreads slowly. “Me too,” he says, just as quietly. “I’m really happy.”

Mickey’s rough hands slide up Ian’s arms. “Should I turn over?”

Ian hesitates. “I wanna see your face.” He swallows. “I’d like to see you when I go in.”

Mickey groans as he watches Ian slide the lube on his fingers.

“Won’t need to stretch me much,” Mickey says. “Don’t need it.”

Ian reaches down, finding him, starting to circle his rim. “My size,” he says quietly. “Gotta be patient. Please let me do this, Mick. I love doing it.”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes out, eyes closed as Ian slips the first finger. He rocks down a bit. “Two.”

Ian backs up and enters him with two fingers, and Mickey’s eyes stay closed. Ian begins to move his fingers apart, a gentle stretch. He looks down at his dick, straining and hard. Looks at his hand, his fingers inside Mickey, getting him ready.

“I’m good.” Mickey parts his legs wider. “Ready for it. C’mon.”

Ian breathes out fast, a smile. “You are a power bottom.”

Mickey opens his eyes. “Don’t wanna be one this time,” he says. “I wanna be…” He doesn’t finish. Mickey just reaches for Ian’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. His lips are full and soft, and move against Ian’s with such familiarity, with such practice.

“Okay,” Ian says when they part. “Okay, Mick.”

Ian almost flinches when he touches his dick. It’s so hard it almost hurts, and he’s been so ready for Mickey for so long. He covers himself with lube and adds some more to Mickey. Mickey stares at him, soft eyes full of wonder.

They stare at each other as Ian begins to push in. They both groan. Holy shit. Ian slides back a little and pushes a little further, a bit of resistance.

“Breathe,” he gently reminds Mickey. Ian knows it’s been a while for him, too.

“Ian,” Mickey sighs as Ian continues to move, so carefully, such a slow but steady push as Mickey begins to relax.

“That’s it,” Ian whispers. Ian rubs his hand down Mickey's leg soothingly, gently pushing it back so he has a better view when he looks down. Fuck. He moans.

“More.” Mickey starts to push down, taking Ian in. Mickey moans as his eyes roll back. “So fucking big. Fucking love it. “

Ian groans. “Takin’ me so good. Fuck. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighs. His hands are gripping Ian’s forearms and he bites his lower lip. And then Ian is there, all the way there, and Mickey looks up at him, woozy.

Ian pauses, waiting for him to nod. It’s really happening. He is really inside Mickey, just like he hoped to be for so long. And it feels amazing.

“Okay.” Mickey bites his lip.

Ian starts to move, slowly at first. A press of his hips, meeting Mickey completely.

“So fucking deep,” Mickey groans.

Ian’s breath is shaky. “So tight around me. Jesus, you feel amazing.”

It’s hotter than Ian ever imagined, and he starts to lean over Mickey so they can be closer.

The change in angle makes Mickey whine. “There,” he says. “Oh, shit.”

“Gonna make it good for you,” Ian promises. “Just tell me what you need.”

Mickey sighs. “Harder.”

Ian pulls Mickey’s leg up, resting it on his shoulder, and Mickey cries out as Ian thrusts harder. Harder.

“Like that,” Mickey breathes. “Oh fuck.”

Ian snaps his hips and speeds up, just a little, just enough. Mickey is starting to tremble. Ian holds onto Mickey’s leg tighter. He bends forward a bit, and Mickey is flexible enough to handle the stretch.

“Fuck,” Mickey groans, and reaches for his cock.

“Move your hand,” Ian says breathily. He leans on one arm and reaches for Mickey’s dick himself, stroking it a few times before letting go. “Untouched, remember?”

Mickey throws his hands up above his head, grabbing onto the sheet, licking his lips, closing his eyes. “Okay,” he pants.

“You can do it,” Ian says firmly. “I know you can.”

Mickey nods and starts to raise his other leg, so Ian wordlessly takes it, sliding it up to his other shoulder. He bends, folding him a bit.

“Open your eyes,” Ian murmurs. “God, I wanna see your eyes when you come.”

Mickey looks right at him.

“That’s it,” Ian says. He snaps his hips hard and Mickey’s jaw drops. “Good.”

“Fuck,” Mickey pants. “You’re right fuckin’ there. Hittin’ my spot perfect.”

Ian groans. He fights the urge to shut his eyes. He’s close too. So close. He breathes hard as he takes Mickey harder, faster, never moving from right where Mickey wants him.

“Come in me,” Mickey cries out, and opens his fists, letting go of the sheet, throwing his arms around Ian as best he can. He whines. “Fuck, I’m coming. I’m—”

Mickey gasps once, and then a long groan. Ian can feel the wetness between them, and when Mickey meets Ian’s eyes, that’s all it takes. Ian’s own orgasm hits him, and he releases into Mickey with a deep moan. He can feel his come, so hot, and Mickey shakes, grunting yeah and fuck. Mickey is wetter inside now, and it’s sexy to feel it drip as Ian pulls out and carefully lowers Mickey’s legs from his shoulders. Mickey pulls him down and kisses him. It’s messy, almost unfocused, raw. Ian collapses on Mickey’s chest, spent.

It’s quiet except for their heavy breathing starting to steady, a long sigh from Mickey.

“Ian,” Mickey whispers.

Ian’s skin is buzzing, alive. “Yeah?”

Mickey looks almost sleepy, so relaxed. His smile is easy and open. “Nothin. Just sayin’ your name.”

Ian chuckles, rolls over and lies next to Mickey. “I like the way you say my name.”

“Why? I say it weird?”

“No,” Ian says, taking Mickey’s hand. “I just like hearing my name after this. My real name. Not…Curtis. Or any of that other shit.”

Mickey raises Ian’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “It’s,” Mickey begins, but doesn’t finish.

“What is it?” Ian rolls on his side, and Mickey does too.

“It’s just,” Mickey begins. “God, it’s been so fuckin’ long.”

Ian hums a little. Yes. It’s been so fuckin’ long. “Was it okay for you?”

Mickey smiles big. “Okay? That was fuckin’ perfect.”

Ian chuckles. “For me too. Fucking perfect.”

Mickey rolls onto his back again with a sigh. “Be right back.”

Mickey heads for the bathroom and Ian looks up at the ceiling. He slows his breathing. There is no panic, nothing to flash back to. There is only Mickey in his mind and in his heart. He realizes he is still smiling. It feels good to smile, good to be happy. Mickey makes him happy. The thought makes him flush pink. He can feel it in his cheeks.

Christ, what a day. Every emotion, every thought. But he’s still here, still breathing. He can hear Mickey in the bathroom, the water running. Ian breathes in, holds it, lets it out. His eyes get a little teary, but he smiles through it. Overwhelming is the word, is always the word, but now it is pure and clean. He glances down at his naked body and doesn’t have to look away. He is connected to it. It is his.

He sits up in bed, back against the headboard. There’s the sound of the door opening, and Mickey is there, tongue slipping against his bottom lip. He walks toward the bed, but then stops.

Ian stares into Mickey’s eyes. The words are in Ian’s mouth again, so warm. Right there, he’s almost saying it. The words Mickey isn’t ready to hear. Ian knows it isn’t time. Not yet. But he feels them just the same. This is more than Ian could have hoped for. This acceptance, this healing moment.

“What?” Mickey’s voice is soft.

Ian shakes his head slowly. “Nothing,” he says. “I just…”

“Me too,” Mickey says, and Ian barely hears it.

Ian swallows. The silence hangs until Ian’s hand reaches for Mickey’s.

Mickey takes it. “What now, huh?” He slowly swings one leg over Ian, settling on top of his lap.

Ian hums. “C’mere,” he whispers, and slides his hands along Mickey’s back.

Mickey looks like he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just leans down, his curious tongue reaching out to curl against Ian’s before connecting their lips again.

Ian slips his head back slightly. A smile. “Round two?”

Mickey grins, his tongue tapping the corner of his mouth. “Absolutely.”

Ian smiles. There a welling-up feeling, almost like tears, but not like tears. A feeling that starts in his stomach and spreads out slowly into his limbs. Because this is everything he’s ever wanted. This softness. This trust. Here. It’s here. And he is finally so free.

Chapter Text

The door to Mickey’s house is still unlocked. When they walk in, it’s the same mess. If anything, it’s worse. It’s like all the shit in the house multiplied overnight. Mickey barely looks around.

“This won’t take long,” Mickey says, shaking out the trash bag in his hands. He gestures with his head to his room.

Ian hesitates. “Wait,” he says, and Mickey turns and raises his eyebrows. “Where do you think paperwork would be? Want to see if I can find the deed to the house.”

Mickey scoffs. “Does this place look like it has a fuckin’ filing cabinet or some shit?”

Ian shifts his feet. He was just trying to help.

“Hey,” Mickey says, more gently. “It’s just…I don’t know. I have no idea.” He looks around and gestures to a broken desk. “Maybe in one of those drawers.”

Ian nods. “I’ll look.” He gestures at the trash bag in Mickey’s hands. “Do you need help?”

“Nah.” Mickey looks around the room. “Don’t need most of this shit. I’ll be quick.”

Ian watches him go. Takes a breath. The room smells bad. Old smoke. Rot. He looks around at everything, all of the broken things, the garbage. He thinks he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. A rat maybe? He ignores it. He heads toward the desk and kneels down, opening a drawer. It’s full of paper. Mickey was right. But where to start? He pulls a chunk out and quickly sorts through it. Old bills. Newspaper. Receipts. A piece of construction paper with nothing on it. Pages and pages of paper with other people’s names on them. Other addresses.

He grabs another chunk and sorts through that, too. More of the same. So much of it.

“Not having any luck,” Ian calls out. Mickey doesn’t answer.

He opens another drawer. Nothing. He closes it again.

Ian decides to take all of the papers. He can sort through it later. Somewhere he can see better. He stands up just as Mickey is coming back out. One garbage bag is full, and the other one hangs empty.

“Let’s fuckin’ go,” Mickey grunts.

Ian holds up the papers. “I’m gonna take this,” he says. “See if there’s anything useful.”

Mickey gives a quick nod. “Throw it in,” he says, and opens the bag for him. There’s clothes inside, but Ian doesn’t recognize anything. He tosses the papers in and Mickey ties the bag shut.

Ian tries to catch his eye, but Mickey doesn’t look up.

“Mickey,” Ian says softly, but Mickey doesn’t raise his head. “Are you sure that’s all you need?”

“Yep.” Mickey looks up and lets the other bag fall from his hands. “Don’t need anythin’ else. Nothin’ left here for me anyways.”

When they leave, Mickey doesn’t shut the door behind them.

*

The library at Malcolm X is closed. Locked. Ian pauses to look in. It is all right where they left it. The books. The tables where they sat. Rex’s library cart. But no one is there.

The classroom is just down the hall to the left. He’s seen people in there before. Today it is his turn. The teacher, Ms. Marriot, straightens up a little when she sees him.

“Hello again,” she says as he files in. “I saw your name on my list. I was hoping you’d come.”

“Yeah,” Ian’s backpack is starting to slide off his shoulder, so he hikes it up. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Other people are sitting down at the desks. Different ages. Some very young, others older than he is. Ms. Marriot gestures to the room with a smile. “Go ahead, take any seat.”

He finds a chair and eases into it. He folds his hands on the desk, then unfolds them. He’s not quite sure what to do with his body. It’s been a while since he’s been in a classroom. He left school so abruptly that he never really had anything that could qualify as a last day. It feels strange to be there.

“You’re here because you care about your future,” Ms. Marriot says to the class. “It doesn’t matter what happened before. You’re here now.” She begins to pass out a different GED book than he saw in the library.

“So!” Her voice is bright. “This is the new test prep guide. In the front there is a short practice test. This isn’t the actual test, and it’s not the questions that are on the test, but it’s a way to see where you are.”

Ian swallows. He knows from the previous guide that the first section is the language arts section. Good. That will be easy for him. He can do that. But he knows that math is hiding right behind it. He’d almost just like to get that over with so he can deal with the disappointment.

As if reading his mind, Ms. Marriot sits back on the desk and looks right at him. “If there are portions that challenge you, we offer tutoring on each subject. You won’t be left to drown. But this class is what you make it.”

Someone raises their hand. “How often do we have to come here?”

“That’s up to you,” Ms. Marriot says. “We offer lots of independent study options. If you have a computer, almost everything is online. If you don’t, we can still arrange your lessons so you can do them outside of work hours. But we will still have class time available and would love for you to come. And like I said, we have the tutoring, and that will be in person.”

Ian shifts in his seat. He’s glad he has a computer. He’ll be able to balance it with The Earl. He definitely doesn’t want to fuck that up, even because of this.

“Let’s get started,” Ms. Marriot says, clapping her hands. “I’m glad you’re all here.”

He cares about his future. She’s right. He’s scared, but he knows Mickey can keep helping with the math. They can do this. He can do this. He opens the book.

*

Three weeks later, Mickey’s stuff is still in garbage bags. They’ve both been so busy they haven’t really put anything away. If they aren’t working, Ian is studying. If Ian isn’t studying, their hands are all over each other until they are locked together in bed, breath shuddering.

Like now. Mickey rides Ian slowly, head back, moaning. Ian’s hands are low on his hips, moving him along, guiding him.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Ian growls.

Mickey leans down for a kiss, rolling his hips, taking Ian so deep. Ian’s hands move to Mickey’s ass and he grabs him tight.

“Yeah,” Mickey gasps. “Hold me like that.”

Ian’s fingers press in harder, and as Mickey leans up again, a string of precome stretches between them from Ian’s stomach back to Mickey’s rock hard dick. Ian swipes it up with his thumb and presses it to Mickey’s lips. Mickey brings his thumb in hungrily, sucking. Ian groans.

Ian can feel Mickey start to squeeze, and Ian tries to raise his hips.

Mickey releases Ian’s thumb from his mouth and shoves Ian down, a hand to his chest. “I got it,” Mickey says. “Just watch.”

Ian stretches Mickey’s cheeks apart. When he dips his fingers in he can feel where Mickey is stretched around him. “Fuck, you take me so good."

Mickey groans and reaches for his cock, starting to pull. Ian lets go of one cheek and wraps his hand around Mickey’s, stroking with him, his other hand still gripping Mickey’s ass.

“Ffffuck,” Mickey hisses. “Shit, Ian.”

“That's it. You're almost there," Ian pants.

Mickey’s back arches. His eyes fly open wide and he gasps for air. “Oh fuck. Gonna—oh fuck.”

Ian lets go of Mickey’s cock and Mickey speeds his hand up. Ian grabs Mickey’s ass roughly with both hands and moves him along faster. Mickey cries out. He comes hard, painting Ian’s stomach and chest. Mickey gasps and meets Ian’s eyes.

“Fill me up,” Mickey pleads. “Oh, fuck, want your come.”

Ian doesn’t miss a beat when he flips Mickey on his back. He pumps into him furiously, trying to angle away from Mickey’s prostate, but Mickey gasps anyway. “Harder. I’m fine. Wanna take it all.”

“Oh, fuck,” Ian groans. He snaps his hips and Mickey’s breath catches.

Mickey tightens his muscles and Ian snaps harder. He can hardly see. Mickey pulls on his hair, and that’s probably what does it. Ian presses in again and stays, letting loose inside Mickey’s body, and Mickey moans his approval.

“Can feel you,” Mickey says. “Oh shit, feels so good, you fillin’ me like that.”

Ian chuckles. “God, you love come, don’t you?”

Mickey nods, breathes out. “What can I say? I’m kinda a come sl—”

Ian feels himself still. Slut. He was going to say slut.

“Shit,” Mickey says under his breath. “I forgot.”

Ian gives a tiny nod and rolls off Mickey slowly, laying down beside him.

“I just fuckin’ forgot,” Mickey says again.

Ian nods. “I know.” He turns his head, meets Mickey’s eyes. “But…it’s okay.”

Mickey’s voice is small. “Really?”

“Mhm,” Ian hums. “It’s not the same feeling I’d get when I'd hear it. I’m not mad.”

They are quiet.

“Thanks,” Mickey says softly.

Ian reaches for Mickey’s hand. “You do like that, don’t you.” Ian says, not at all like a question. “Calling yourself that.”

Mickey glances down, but then meets Ian’s eyes. “Yeah. I guess.”

“And you like when someone calls you that?”

Mickey hesitates. “It was only one guy. One time. He was poundin’ me in an alley and just said it. But somethin’ happened in me when I heard it. I can’t explain it.” Mickey looks away, looks at the ceiling. “I fuckin’ loved it. Don’t know why.”

Ian doesn’t say anything.

“But I get it,” Mickey says. “Know it’s off the table. And I only heard it the one time. Not like I need it or some shit.”

“But you were hoping,” Ian says slowly. “Like, you were hoping that maybe?”

Mickey shrugs. “Like I said. Know it’s off the table.”

Ian chews his lip. Considers his words. “You know, maybe we could…I don’t know. Maybe we could, like, think about things?”

Mickey squints. “About the limits thing?”

“Yeah,” Ian says gently. “I’ve been thinking. Sometimes they can be a little softer than we first think.”

“Like what?” Mickey says, his eyes a little wider when he looks back at Ian. “What’s softer?”

Ian is quiet again.

“I don’t know yet,” Ian says at last. “But it’s so different with you. You’re someone I can trust. That’s new for me.”

“Me too,” Mickey says. “Very fucking new.”

Ian searches his "no" list. Almost everything seems softer if he’s honest. Not the face fucking. Hard limit on that. But the rest of them? Maybe? It’s too much to think about just now.

Ian takes a deep breath. “I’ll have to think about this,” he says. “I don’t know yet.”

Mickey looks like he’s going to smile, but he doesn’t quite do it. “We have time,” he says. “Don’t gotta push it. I’ll think too.”

Ian gives a quick nod. “Yeah.”

The moment passes, and they both take a breath at the same time, letting it out slowly.

Mickey gestures to the plastic bags lying on the floor. “Not getting any closer to putting my shit away.”

“I cleaned out those drawers,” Ian says with a smile. “We just keep getting…distracted.”

“Heh,” Mickey says. “Guess so.”

“Still haven’t even gone through those papers yet,” Ian says, stretching.

“Fuck that,” Mickey says. “Probably trash anyways.”

Ian wants to say how important it is, but he knows now isn’t the time.

Mickey rolls out of bed, stretches his arms up, twists his body with a deep groan.

Ian sits up, his eyes never leaving Mickey’s naked body. “You live here now,” he says. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Mickey says. “Not gettin’ rid of me yet.”

Ian grins. “I like you here.”

Mickey rolls his eyes but fights a smile. “C’mon softy. Let’s get in the shower.”

*

Mickey leaves for work, and Ian opens his computer. He sighs. Math today. Again. He knows that, to a certain degree, he’s psyching himself out. It’s like his brain locks up and he can’t find a way out. It doesn’t help that he still gets brain fog sometimes with one of his meds.

He taps his fingers on the table. Mickey is always so patient with him. When he’s with Mickey, he doesn’t feel stupid. But right now, alone, he can sense the feeling is coming for him. He worked hard in school. Worked hard with Lip, but this isn’t the same. Mickey explains things in a way he can understand.

Ian eyes the garbage bag.

“Focus on your work, Ian,” he says to himself instead, and looks back at the computer.

He looks back at the garbage bag.

Fuck it. He has to know.

The papers are still near the top. When he pulls them out he realizes how much they smell like smoke. He goes back to the table and starts to sift through them quickly. More of the same. Some unopened mail, so he opens them just in case. After a while, he’s been through the whole big stack.

Shit. No deed. No will. Nothing.

He opens a new tab on the computer and types in “deed for house chicago.” They have to figure out this thing about selling the house. He knows Mickey could use the money, and it would be nice for him to be free of it.

In a few clicks he finds out he can go to the county office and request one. Great. Fantastic.

But.

Shit.

It hits him. They’ll need a will. Mickey said the house was in his family. His family is gone except for his siblings. Technically it would go to them, right?

Fuck, he doesn’t know. Not like he’s a lawyer.

With no will, they’ll need a lawyer.

Lawyers are fucking expensive.

Shit.

Ian rubs his hands over his face and groans. He hears a noise, and when he brings his hands away, Bill is sitting on the table, staring at him.

“We’re fucked, Bill.” Ian reaches out to pet her but she flinches, so he brings his hand away. Sometimes she doesn’t want to be petted, sometimes she gets scared of hands. He doesn’t know what happened to her in the time before he found her. He leaves her alone.

Ian picks up his phone. He has to call Lip. He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do.

Lip picks up right away. “Hey man.”

“Hey.” Ian can hear Fred squealing in the background. He smiles. “Fred saying hi too?”

“Ha. Yeah.” He can hear Lip smiling. “Yeah, he’s been chatty this morning. What's up?”

Ian hesitates. “I need help with Mickey's house. Do we know a lawyer?"

“Tami's cousin is a lawyer,” Lip says. “Public defender. Why? What's wrong with Mickey's house other than being a shithole? He still want to sell it?”

“Yeah. But it's turning out to be harder than I thought.” Ian looks around the room, the bags in the corner, the bent floor lamp he found on the street. “I need a copy of a will that doesn’t exist. It says on the website if there’s no will the property can go to surviving family members, but I think that requires a birth certificate, and I don’t think that exists either. Mickey was born at home. All the kids were. Who knows if they even got one.”

“They got one,” Lip says. “At some point they had one or he wouldn’t have been able to go to school."

Bill steps closer so Ian leans in. She’s going for his neck. She eases into his lap and stretches her arms up until she’s holding the sides of his neck. He hits the speaker button and sets the phone down. Holds her.

“Lip, I don’t know what to do.”

There’s a pause. “Does he have an ID? He must. He’d need an ID to get a job.”

Ian nods even though Lip can’t see him. “Yeah, I've seen it.”

“Okay,” Lip says. “Okay so here’s what we do. Go get him a birth certificate. You can go to the birth and death records department for that. Get that, and I can help with the rest. That’s okay with him, yeah? If I help with this?”

“Sure." Ian looks down at Bill. She stares at him like she knows he’s lying.

Lip pauses. “You didn’t ask him yet.”

“Well, no. Not exactly.” Ian stands and heads for the tiny closet. He needs Bill’s scarf. “But he’ll be fine,” he says, louder so Lip can hear him. “He wants to get rid of it as soon as possible.”

“I looked it up,” Lip says. “They’re open during the week until 5. Can you get him there next week?”

“Yeah.” Ian wraps the scarf around bill and secures it. She nuzzles into his neck. “Yeah, he doesn’t work on Monday and Wednesday.”

“Good,” Lip says. “Get that and we’ll talk.”

They hang up. Ian breathes a sigh of relief. Birth certificate. They can do that. It’s a start. He looks down at Bill, pats her warm body. “Time for school,” he says, and goes back to his computer.

*

The Earl is slammed. There’s a large party in the front, every other table is taken, and the bar area is almost full. Ticket after ticket pops up on the computer. Clare is faster than he is. She just is. He feels clumsy, but she doesn’t yell at him. She just smiles and nods and grabs for liquor bottles without even looking. Muscle memory. It’s impressive.

“Dewars and soda,” a server says sharply. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Sorry,” Ian stammers. He fumbles for the bottle on the shelf. “I didn’t see the ticket.”

She doesn’t respond, just puts out a hand, and as soon as Ian sets it down, she swoops it away without a word.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clare says, reaching past him for the cooler. “Morgan’s always impatient like that. You’re doing great.

“Don’t feel like I’m doing great,” Ian says apologetically.

“It gets easier, I promise." Clare slides back around him smoothly. “I’m doing fine over here, I gotcha.”

An older man slides up to the bar and sits at the end. Ian smiles, takes a deep breath and sets down a napkin.

“Well, hello,” the man says with a smile.

“Hello,” Ian says. He allows a smile back. “What would you like?”

“Manhattan,” the man says. “No cherry.”

Ian gives a quick nod and sets to work. Halfway through making the drink, he pauses. Wait. Manhattan? He glances over at the man, who is still smiling at him. Is it…wait. Is it the man from The Fairy Tail?

He shakes the thought off, but his fingers shake as he pours. He takes a deep breath and turns around.

No.

It’s not him.

A woman appears at the man’s side. Blonde. Younger than he is by far. She hangs on his arm.

It’s not him.

“Thank you,” the man says as Ian sets it down. “And sauvignon blanc for my lady here.”

“Of course,” Ian says, and he can hear the relief in his voice. “Yes.”

He looks over his shoulder one more time before reaching for the wine.

He has to stop this. He can’t assume every guy who smiles at him is someone from The Fairy Tail. But Ian can’t always place the men who look at him. He just assumes. Or he forgets for a second who he once was until he’s reminded. Like that guy at the laundromat. He sighs. Fuck it. He straightens up a bit. He’s done being afraid. It’s time to move on from this worry.

He reaches for a glass and sets it in front of the woman, pouring the wine.

“Thank you,” she says, but she’s distracted, looking at Clare. She whispers something to the man, and he chuckles.

Ian frowns a little, but turns so they can’t see. He notices Clare noticing, and she freezes for a split second, then goes back to making a drink and chatting.

Morgan is back at the wait stand. “Um, hello?” Her voice is strained but forcefully cheerful, a performance for the people at the bar. “Ian, I need a Hazy Pitch and a vodka martini up.”

When he meets her eyes they are hard as steel. He hurries over to the taps and starts pouring a pint while scanning the vodka.

“Belvedere,” Morgan says, and then she’s not hiding the annoyance anymore.

Clare comes over and checks the computer. “You don’t have a ticket,” she says to Morgan.

“I’m ringing in the ticket in a sec,” Morgan says. “He’s just been so slow, I—”

Clare starts reaching for the pint in Ian’s hand. “We need the ticket first,” she says pointedly. “Go ring it in.”

Morgan’s eyes narrow and she turns on her heel, disappearing.

Clare reaches for the bottle of Belvedere and stays close as she passes it over. “She can’t do that to us,” Clare says. “Don’t let her push the boundaries. We’re not going to get in trouble to cover her ass.” She glances over to the couple at the bar.

Ian leans over. “Who are they?”

Clare taps his arm so they turn and face the wall so no one can see their faces. “I’ve fucked them a few times,” she says. Ian tries to hide his surprise. “But I’m not so much into him. He’s rich, but I don’t care about that. He thinks I do. Tries to impress me. I’m more into her, but they’re a package deal.”

Ian starts to look over his shoulder, but she stops him. “Don’t look,” she says. “Play it cool.”

He tries to nod as he sets the martini down.

“Switch sides with me,” Clare brushes his hip and scoots past him. “I need to deal with them. They keep showing up here. All. The. Time.”

“Sure,” Ian says. He sets Morgan's drinks down at the wait stand and heads to the other side of the bar. He grabs a ticket and gets to work. A glance over his shoulder shows him Clare is leaning forward, and the man reaches for her hand. Should he intervene? Clare pulls her hand away and turns. Nah. She’s got it.

“I’m waiting,” Morgan calls out again. Ian clenches his teeth and gestures in front of her at the wait stand, and Morgan clamps her mouth shut.

Clare meets his eyes with a laugh. He grins, and the tickets keep coming. He’s gonna make some money tonight.

*

On the walk home he smiles thinking of all the money he’s carrying. He can’t wait to tell Mickey. It’s a huge contribution to the rent next month. He’s so relieved. He thinks about walking to the ATM and depositing it, but doesn’t want to be handling this much money late at night. Better to leave it in his pocket.

He unlocks the outside door and takes the stairs two at a time. When he enters the apartment he can hear the shower running. Mickey is back from work. He considers going in to join him, but then spots something on the bed. A paper bag, carefully folded at the top.

He takes a step toward it. Should he?

No. He should wait.

But.

He sighs and heads for the bathroom. He swings the door open. “Hey Mick, what’s in the bag?”

“Jesus!” There’s a rustle in the shower curtain. “What the fuck? I didn’t hear the door. Warn a guy.”

Bill runs away from the curtain, probably startled by Mickey’s movements. She dodges Ian’s legs and runs out the door.

Ian comes closer to the curtain. “Sorry about that,” he says. He reaches out and peeks in. Mickey has shampoo in his hair. Mickey raises his eyebrows.

Ian raises an eyebrow back. He lets his eyes trail down. “Need any help?”

Mickey grins but tips his head back under the water. “I got it,” he says. “Go sit down. Wanna show ya somethin’ when I get out.”

Ian’s eyes still travel over Mickey’s naked body slowly. “Are you gonna show me what’s in the bag?”

“Will you relax about the—” Mickey purses his lips. “Be more fuckin’ patient. Yes, I’ll show you. Just give me a second.” He shuts the water off and stares at Ian. Raises his eyebrows again, cracks a smile. “Gimme a towel, then. Be helpful.”

Ian laughs and passes the waiting towel over. “How was work?”

“Hot. Disgusting.” Mickey steps out of the shower with his towel and ties it low on his hips. “Shower felt good. You want one?”

Ian tilts his head. “Do I need one?”

Mickey’s smile widens as he leans into Ian’s neck and breathes. “Smell good like this.” His arms are damp against Ian’s dress shirt, and when Ian reaches for Mickey’s face, it’s damp and warm there too.

“You like how I smell?” Ian smiles. “Even after working?”

“Fuck yeah,” Mickey says. “Like it a lot.”

Mickey grins into Ian’s kiss. Ian’s hands drop to grab him by the hips, and he pulls him out of the bathroom, stepping him back and back until they reach the bed. He eases Mickey down and settles above him. Mickey is beautiful, smells like soap, clean. Ian can smell himself in contrast. For a minute, he’s aware of it.

“I said I like it a lot,” Mickey says, as if reading his mind. Mickey’s fingers find the buttons on Ian’s shirt. They fumble a bit, but soon he is slipping the shirt off Ian’s shoulders. Mickey’s eyelids droop a bit as his eyes glide over Ian’s skin, his chest, his arms. Ian lowers himself further onto Mickey’s body, pressing him down. Mickey’s breath catches, and he reaches for Ian’s biceps as Ian bends to kiss his neck. Mickey groans and Ian can feel it everywhere.

The paper bag rustles against Ian’s leg.

“What’s in the bag?” Ian’s voice is low but curious.

“Open it,” Mickey whispers, then bites his lip.

Ian backs off and reaches for the bag eagerly. But his fingers slow as he opens the top. He peers inside.

Handcuffs.

Leather ones. Lined.

Ian’s mouth is open. He can feel it. “M-Mick,” he stammers.

Mickey begins to chew his lip, all nerves and uncertainty.

“They’re for me,” Mickey says. “For you to use on me.”

Ian tips the bag over and lets the cuffs fall onto the bed. He doesn’t touch them, just stares. They look soft. Ian has used cuffs before, a long time ago, but just cheap metal ones. They rubbed his wrists and didn’t feel that good. But they were all he had at the time. It was when he was young, and fooling around with Roger, and he soon learned he liked to be the one who did the cuffing. He hasn’t done it since.

Ian’s mouth feels dry. He feels very aware of his hands. He watches them touch the cuffs, pick them up, feel their softness, their weight.

“I just thought maybe—” Mickey begins, and Ian looks up. Mickey is chewing his lip again. He releases it, red and pillowy. “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinkin’ about them a lot. I’ve never…” He trails off and looks at his hands. “I mean, I just bought them today. I've never used 'em."

Ian’s fingers trail over the leather. He tests their tension, pulling on them, and Mickey’s breath hitches. When Ian looks up, Mickey almost seems dazed.

“Mickey,” Ian says evenly. “What do you want me to do to you?”

Mickey swallows, not taking his eyes off Ian’s. “I wanna be like we talked about. At the restaurant that day.”

Ian squints. He doesn’t quite understand.

Mickey picks it up again. “When…when you asked me if I like when someone else is in charge.”

There’s a plummeting feeling, like all the pressure in the room has suddenly rushed straight to Ian’s dick. He makes sure Mickey is watching him and he pulls on the cuffs again, then starts to unfasten them.

“A sub.” Ian murmurs. Statement. Fact.

Mickey almost looks like he’s going to protest, but then lets out a slow, shallow breath. He swallows again. Nods slowly.

Ian’s fingers start to reach for the towel around Mickey’s waist. He can see the hardening outline of Mickey’s dick through the fabric. He passes it by, doesn’t even give one fingertip’s worth of attention to it. Ian pulls on the top of the towel, beginning to unravel the folds, beginning to reveal Mickey’s perfect body. Mickey’s head tilts back when the towel is fully taken off.

“That’s it. Let me look at you.”

“Ian,” Mickey gasps, eyes closed.

There’s a fire in Ian’s belly, a swell of something. He feels drunk on the tension in the room, the anticipation. Mickey’s trust. Fuck. Mickey trusts him with this.

Ian swallows, his eyes gliding up Mickey’s heaving chest, the hollow of his throat.

“Ask me,” Ian says, starting to stand up. His hands go straight for his belt, but then he changes his mind. Let him look. Let Mickey see him clothed from the waist down. Make him wait for it. Ian feels like he’s trembling. He steadies himself. “Ask me to cuff you.”

Mickey gives a tiny whine. Ian fights the urge to fall to his knees, take Mickey’s dick in his mouth. No. Now is the time for Ian to wait too. Now is the time to play.

“Ian,” Mickey whispers. “Cuff me.”

Ian’s hands reach for the cuffs again. He toys with them in his hands, as if considering. “Louder.”

“Please,” Mickey groans. He starts to spread his legs. “Please cuff me.”

Ian reaches for Mickey’s left hand, turns it over and drags a fingertip along the sensitive thin skin of his wrist. “You might have marks here,” Ian says, and it’s supposed to sound sexy, but it’s also checking in. Making sure Mickey is all there. Thinking it through.

“I-I know,” Mickey pants. “I want em.”

Ian laughs lightly. The feeling of power rises. It’s intoxicating. He thinks of the word they haven’t used yet. Another word for what they do. “You want everyone to know your boyfriend handcuffed you to the bed and fucked you?”

Mickey’s eyes widen. “Yes, I want you to fuck me.” His eyes press on Ian’s, pleading. His tongue slides over his lip. He stares at Ian’s crotch.

“Oh, this?” Ian rubs himself through his pants. He fights a groan. Goddamn he’s hard.

“Want it,” Mickey whispers.

Ian tsk tsks. “Not yet,” he says, and unbuttons his pants. He slides them down his thighs. His grey boxer briefs show Mickey the wet spot from where he’s already leaking, and Mickey’s eyes don’t budge from it, not even when Ian crawls back on the bed and hooks a finger beneath Mickey’s chin.

“Love your cock.” Mickey sounds like he could moan any minute. “Want you in my throat. Wanna fuckin’ gag on it.”

Ian considers it. His dick fucking considers it.

Control, Ian thinks. He has to keep himself under control for a while tonight. It’s been a long time since he’s had to do that. He tries to steady his breathing.

“Not this time,” Ian traces Mickey’s lip with his thumb. “But I still wanna play. Do you trust me?”

MIckey looks woozy. “Yeah,” he breathes.

“Good,” Ian says. “And I trust you.

“Wanna be—” Mickey closes his mouth.

“Wanna be what?” Ian slides his hand up, holding his cheek. “You can tell me.”

“Submissive. Want you in charge of me.” When he says the words, his eyes are hooded. Desire.

Mickey trusting him like this, inviting Ian into his deepest fantasies like this, makes Ian want to explode.

“I want that too, Mickey.”

Mickey looks startled by the use of his name, but Ian isn’t ready to call him anything else. Not yet.

“And I wanna be good,” Mickey gasps.

“You already are good,” he says reassuringly, and stares into Mickey’s eyes. His hands race down Mickey’s arms, all the way to his wrists. He tightens his hold. “You’re so good, aren’t you?”

Mickey moans, lets his eyes blink closed, then open.

“Mickey,” Ian says. Fuck, he’s turned all the way on. “Do you know how to use colors playing like this?”

“N—no. What’s that?” Mickey licks his lips.

“It’s a stoplight system,” Ian says. “You say green to go. If you’re feeling good. If you want it.”

“Fucking green,” Mickey says. “I want it.”

Ian nods. “There’s two more. You say yellow to slow down and talk, red if you need to stop. And you need to be honest with me, okay? I can’t play otherwise.”

“Yeah.” Mickey’s eyes are full on him, not budging from Ian’s face. “I will. I know.”

“Good,” Ian murmurs. He pulls back and reaches for the cuffs on the bed. The closures are easier than he thought. He is glad. You never know when playtime needs to be over fast. He feels relief. He lets the breath out.

“Wait. Can I-“ Mickey begins, but then stops.

Ian nods at him. “Go ahead, what do you need?”

“I need,” Mickey says, and swallows. “Want you to rim me first. I want you to show me how you do it.”

There’s a little cooling off moment as Ian sits back on his knees, confused. He sets the cuffs aside. “You said you don’t like it?” He says it like a question, but doesn’t know why.

“I know,” Mickey says. “But it only happened one time. And it felt too weird. But maybe…”

Fuck. Holy fuck.

“You like to, right?” Mickey looks like his bravado is faltering. He looks nervous, almost.

Ian nods fast. “I fucking love to. Oh, my god, Mick. I want to. Are you sure?”

“Fuckin' positive.”

Ian reaches for Mickey’s face, looking deep into his eyes. Checking in. “And you can say yellow or red anytime, okay? Don’t keep doing it if you don’t like it. Promise me.”

“Yeah,” Mickey pants. “Promise. I want it. I want you to.”

“Okay.” Ian raises an eyebrow and starts to roll Mickey over. “On your knees,” he says, voice encouraging and steady.

Ian slides behind Mickey as Mickey rises to his knees. Ian presses between Mickey’s shoulder blades, guiding the top half of Mickey’s body back to the mattress. He presses Mickey down hard and hovers above him.

Ian hears a little sound, and he’s about to ask for Mickey’s color, but then he feels Mickey starting to spread his knees apart farther. Ian backs up, keeping his hand firmly between Mickey’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah, Mick,” Ian says in a low voice. “Spread for me. Let me see you.”

Mickey’s hands come back and he pulls himself apart. Tightly closed. For now. Ian’s hand leaves Mickey’s back, and there’s a grunt of protest, but then Ian just looks at him. Lets Mickey wait.

Ian’s hands begin to brush Mickey’s away, so Mickey groans and lets his hands drop. Ian doesn’t miss how he starts to grip the sheets. Ian slides his hands over the soft pale globes of Mickey’s ass. He grips one hard and gives it a shake.

“Feels so perfect to hang onto,” Ian says. “God, I love to hold your ass while I fuck you.” There’s that word again. But god, it feels so right like this, Mickey keyed up and spread out for him to play with. It’s the word that fits best.

Ian’s mouth waters. He hasn’t done this in so long. He leans forward and kisses Mickey’s cheek, then the other. He can feel his breath coming faster. He gently pulls Mickey apart again and glances up at Mickey, still fisting the sheets.

“Color.” Ian’s voice is even. Loud. In control.

“Yeah.” Mickey’s legs are shaking. “I mean, green.”

Ian breathes against him. Mickey doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t move. Ian slowly leans forward and slides his tongue right over Mickey’s tight hole, Mickey breathes in sharply, but doesn’t move.

Ian pauses, but he doesn’t hear anything, so he slowly caresses Mickey’s entrance with his tongue over and over. He kisses the sensitive skin, circles him and teases him, and something starts to happen.

Mickey rises, and begins to rock back.

Fuck.

“That’s it,” Ian murmurs against his skin.

“Startin’ to feel really good,” Mickey breathes. “Shit, wasn’t like this before.”

Ian leans back and spits on Mickey’s hole, and Mickey groans.

Ian’s mouth returns and Mickey just takes it, each movement, each flick of Ian’s tongue, each prodding nudge. Mickey starts to rock back faster.

“Yeah, fucking ride my face,” Ian demands, and grips him tight, pulling Mickey back harder. Mickey keens, his thighs shaking.

“Oh god!” Mickey’s voice rolls out of him, surprised and rising. He punches out quick breaths as Ian’s tongue teases his entrance, eager for more.

“Gonna open you,” Ian says, pulling back. “Get you fucking ready for me.”

“G-green,” Mickey volunteers, gasping. “Ian, please.”

Ian gives one last lick, a kiss, and then presses a finger to Mickey, circling him, applying pressure. Mickey pushes back slightly, trying to take him in, but Ian doesn’t let him. He grabs onto his hip hard. Stills him.

“I’ve got you.” Ian stares at Mickey’s perfect hole and sighs. Ian’s finger applies more pressure. Mickey is wet from his mouth, but maybe not enough. Ian considers lube, and his pause is just slight enough that Mickey reads it.

“Just like this,” Mickey pants. “Fuckin’—“

One finger slides in, and Mickey whines. Ian’s tongue returns, moves and moves, and when he backs up to add another finger, Ian licks inside him. Ian grabs Mickey’s thigh and pulls, and Mickey rocks back against his face again. Mickey’s loud moans let Ian know his fingers are right where he wants them. Ian licks around his rim and moves his fingers faster.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey pants. “Gonna come.”

“Not yet,” Ian says quietly, and starts to back up, hands off. He reaches for Mickey’s hips and pushes him, rolling Mickey onto his back.

“Fuuuuu-“ Mickey groans, eyes closed. “Was so close.”

“I know,” Ian whispers. “Just breathe.”

Mickey does. He breathes slowly out of his mouth, and Ian can hear it shake. He blinks up at Ian and then glances down at the bed, eyes falling nowhere, but Ian knows what he wants.

“I'm gonna cuff you now,” Ian says, and it’s to himself as much as Mickey. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Mickey opens his eyes. “Yeah, green.”

Ian hums. He reaches down and finds the cuffs, pulling them up. He holds them in front of Mickey’s beautiful face. “Kiss them.”

Mickey’s eyes slip shut again, then open slowly. He lifts his head and kisses the cuffs.

“You know,” Ian says, reaching for Mickey’s wrists. He slips one of the cuffs onto Mickey’s left wrist. Too tight? No. Just right. “I bet you’ve been wanting to be restrained for a long time. Wanted someone else to be completely in charge of you. Your body. Right?

“Yes,” Mickey moans.

“Mmm,” Ian hums. Ian reaches up to the headboard and slides the other cuff around the slat, finding Mickey’s other wrist and securing it. There. Mickey is bound to the bed.

Ian wants to check his work. “Tug.”

Mickey does, and then breathes deeply when the handcuffs don’t come apart.

“Feel okay?” Ian stares right into Mickey’s eyes.

Mickey tries to nod, but it’s like he doesn’t want to break the eye contact.

“I’ve got you,” Ian says quietly. “You can let go. I promise. I’ll be right here.”

“Thank you,” Mickey breathes. His eyes are almost glassy. “Ian, thank you.”

Ian kisses him. First softly, then a little harder, but when Mickey tries to raise his head to get closer, Ian backs off. Mickey gives a little noise, then bites his lip.

“Let me look at you,” Ian says. His eyes take in Mickey’s naked body and catch on Mickey’s cock. “You’re so hard,” Ian says, and he doesn’t touch him. He just watches it, proud and strong against Mickey’s stomach. “Mmm. Look at you leak. You’re so wet. Does it hurt? Bet it hurts.”

“I,” Mickey says, then clamps his mouth shut.

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Do you like that it hurts?” He takes a breath, his eyes find Mickey’s, he reads it all. He sees the word there. Can almost touch it, written in Mickey’s eyes. And he makes a decision.

“I do,” Mickey says, relieved, groaning. “Fuck, I like it.”

“Why?” Ian’s voice is even, controlled. “Why do you like this, Mickey?”

Mickey opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

Ian leans forward and licks into Mickey’s open mouth, and Mickey immediately responds, his own tongue gliding, searching.

Ian pulls back and looks deep into Mickey’s eyes. He softens. He knows what Mickey wants to say. And he wants to give him this. Ian wants to be open, brave. He wants to be able to be healed, feel his softened boundary, ready.

“Say it,” Ian says.

“Yellow.” Mickey’s voice is soft, but his eyes are so wide. “Ian, I don’t know if it's okay to say it.”

“You can say it,” Ian says just as softly. “I promise. Wanna hear it."

Mickey whimpers.

“Tell me what you are.” Ian reaches out a hand and grips Mickey’s chin. “Color?”

“Green.” Mickey breathes, and spreads his legs. Ian looks down and sees his own cock, still in fabric.

“Mickey.” Ian’s voice is low. “Why are you so hard for me?”

Mickey gasps. “Because I’m a slut.”

Ian’s breath catches. Said like this, it does something to him too. “Yes you are,” Ian murmurs. "And you're my slut, aren't you?"

Mickey whines. "Yes. Ian, please."

“So good," Ian murmurs. He looks down at Mickey, so beautiful. Ian backs up to hover above Mickey's strong thighs. Ian hooks his thumbs below his waistband. He slides the waistband down, just enough, almost enough, and Mickey licks his lips.

Ian palms at himself, making sure Mickey is watching. "Tell me you're mine."

“I’m yours,” Mickey moans, and he starts to writhe.

“Mmm," Ian hums proudly. "Are you ready for me?”

Mickey nods fast, eyes focused on Ian’s waistband. “I’ve been good,” he pants.

“So good,” Ian whispers, and he pulls his boxer briefs down, leaning forward, balancing on one arm so the other hand can pull them completely off. He rises up so Mickey can get a good, long look.

Mickey moans at the sight.

Ian bends, reaching for Mickey’s bound wrists. He slips his fingers into his palm. Mickey closes his fingers around them, Ian’s lips find Mickey’s neck, kissing softly, then a bit harder. Teeth. A suck. Another kiss. He lets go of Mickey’s hands and pushes Mickey’s legs apart.

“Look at you ache for it,” Ian says roughly, reaching for the table. Lube. He needs it immediately. He swipes some against himself, against Mickey, who whines and tries to lift his hips. Ian grabs at Mickey's legs and pushes them up. “Mm, you’re so fucking ready, aren’t you?”

Mickey’s eyes are hooded, and his cuffed hands clench and release. “Yeah.” he groans. Then he gasps, eyes widening. “Fuck, can feel you.”

Because yes, Ian is already there, already starting to meet his rim, already starting to press in. Ian enters him slowly, but steadily, in the way he now knows Mickey likes. Dragging back, then pressing in harder, hips meeting him, pressing Mickey down and leaning closer to his face.

“Yeah, take my cock deeper,” Ian whispers. His thrusts are careful and measured, but so hard and complete. “You’re mine to play with, aren’t you?

“All yours.” Mickey whines. “God, this is so fucking—”

"Take it, Mick." Ian grunts, and speeds up, just a little. "Fucking take it."

Mickey is moaning, swearing, eyelids hooded. Ian moves his hips faster, snapping into him, dragging against his prostate, and soon Ian can tell Mickey is close. But Ian doesn’t reach for his dick. Now that he knows Mickey can come untouched, he wants to see it again. Needs to see it again. Ian starts to fuck him harder.

Mickey’s eyes snap open, and Ian must be silently asking a question, because Mickey starts to chant. “Green green green. Oh. Fuck. I’m gonna. Can I?”

“Whenever you want.” Ian doesn’t slow, doesn’t lose his pace. It’s overwhelming, so overwhelming, and Ian can feel it all building and building. “You can come whenever you want.”

Mickey begins to gasp. “Ian!”

“So perfect,” Ian pants, “Show me how good I feel.”

Mickey’s legs shake against Ian’s arms. Mickey is only seconds away. Then right on the edge, teetering there, mouth wide open

But Mickey wants permission. Ian almost growls when he realizes it.

He leans forward, looks right into Mickey’s eyes.

“Now, Mick.”

And then Mickey is there, fully there, and lets go with a shout, his come hitting Ian’s chest. He shakes and shakes, his arms starting to strain and pull at the cuffs, words rushing from his lips, but Ian can hardly understand them. But then something pushes through, and Mickey’s eyes meet Ian’s as the words spill out.

“Come on me,” Mickey pants. “All over me.”

Ian pulls out with a groan, dropping Mickey’s legs and leaning over him, starting to pull his cock fast. “Gonna fucking cover you," Ian grunts. "Make a fuckin' mess."

Mickey is breathing fast, and Ian can’t tell if it’s from his words or the last of his orgasm. It doesn’t matter. He’s going to give Mickey exactly what he wants. He grabs at Mickey’s hip with his other hand, squeezes, and then releases onto Mickey’s skin, his stomach and chest, everywhere. Mickey’s eyes roll back as he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. Whines.

Ian swipes two fingers against Mickey’s skin, covering them thickly with his come, and brings them to Mickey’s lips.

Mickey draws the fingers deep into his mouth, nearly to the point of gagging, and sucks them clean, eyes on Ian the whole time.

“That’s it,” Ian says quietly, so quietly. "All up. Good."

Mickey's breath rushes from his nose, and then Ian can see a small, overwhelmed flash of something in Mickey’s eyes. It’s time.

Ian quickly withdraws his fingers and immediately reaches for the cuffs, Mickey doesn’t stop him. Ian unfastens them and throws them aside.

Mickey sighs as Ian eases his arms down, taking Mickey’s hands in his. “They must be numb by now.” Ian slowly drags his thumb over each palm, waking them up.

“They’re okay,” Mickey whispers, but he sighs as Ian begins to massage his hands.

Ian inspects Mickey’s wrists. They are red, but not bruised or anything. He brings them together and raises them up to his mouth, kissing them softly. He looks up and Mickey’s eyes are closed, lips parted.

“Mick,” Ian whispers.

Mickey’s eyes blink open.

“Are you still with me?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says breathily. Then stronger. “Yeah, I’m here. Feel like I’m floating.”

“I’ve got you.” Ian’s voice is as soft as his lips press on Mickey’s wrists again.

“Mmm,” Mickey hums, then sighs. He looks at Ian, and Ian can see he’s more focused, coming down.

Ian hesitates. “I need to get you some things. Will you be okay for a second?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah. Just come back quick.”

Ian kisses him once, and rises from bed. He quickly grabs a few things from the bathroom. A warm washcloth. Lotion. Fuck, he should have been prepared, but he had no idea this would be happening. He rushes over to the kitchen and quickly fills a glass of water.

When he returns to bed, Mickey smiles slowly. “What’s that stuff?”

“Stuff for you,” Ian says, setting down the glass and lotion and holding the warm cloth in his hands. He slowly begins to drag the cloth on Mickey’s forehead and cheeks, and Mickey sighs.

“Feels…” Mickey whispers, and Ian’s cloth glides down Mickey’s neck, starting to wipe at his chest, his stomach. Lower.

Ian sets the cloth aside and picks up the lotion.

“This is all I have,” Ian says apologetically, sliding the lotion around Mickey’s wrists. “But we can get something better.” He pauses. “You know, if you want to do this again.”

Mickey blinks up at him. “You’d do this again?”

Ian feels nervous, but slowly nods. “Not all the time, maybe. But yeah. I’d do this again.” He swallows. “If you want to.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says softly. “Yeah, I wanna do this again.”

Ian gives him a small smile. “Okay,” he says. He sets down the lotion, reaching for the glass of water.

“C’mere, sit up,” Ian reaches for Mickey’s shoulder. “Slowly.”

Mickey takes his time sitting up with Ian’s help. He takes the water from Ian’s hand and drinks. He drinks half of the water and blinks up at Ian.

Ian nods.

Mickey raises the glass again with a smile, and drinks the rest. He sets it down on the nightstand, a peaceful sigh on his lips as he lays back down.

“How’d you know how to do this?” Mickey asks. “The…”

“Aftercare,” Ian says, and pulls him closer, letting Mickey’s face rest on his chest, wrapping an arm around him. He takes a breath. “I learned about it on the internet once. I found it on a website about…things. Once I knew I was into stuff like this. How do you feel?”

“Good. Nice way to come down again.”

“That’s the idea,” Ian says. “Bring you back to yourself.” Ian kisses the top of Mickey’s head. “What else do you need? More water? Food?”

“Just lie here.” Mickey closes his eyes. Opens them slowly.

“You should rest.” Another kiss.

Mickey looks up at him slowly. “You too.”

Ian smiles, and Mickey smiles too. “Was it—was it too much?”

Mickey’s smile widens. “No way. Was perfect.”

Ian chuckles. “And it seems like you might like rimming after all?”

Mickey laughs. “Uh, yeah. I do. Jesus, didn’t feel like that before at all.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Ian says. “I’m glad you felt comfortable.”

“Yeah. Really fuckin’ comfortable.” Mickey’s voice is a bit hoarse from all the panting and noises. Ian loves it. It gives him a strange feeling of pride. Mickey drags his fingertips up Ian’s chest, fingers sliding into the hair there, a little hum. Mickey’s fingertips glide up to Ian’s collarbone. “I wasn’t expecting you to be comfortable with me saying…that word.”

Ian takes a breath before he speaks. “It felt right,” he says. “Felt right for the moment.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says slowly. “But you still feel okay? With that?”

Ian pulls Mickey closer. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s…different from what I felt before. And I feel, I don’t know, I feel like I’m different. Different with you. Safer. Better.”

“We don’t have to say it again,” Mickey says quickly, trying to reassure him. Tell him it’s okay.

“I know,” Ian says. “But that boundary turned out to be a little softer. Still can’t call me one, but I liked the way you looked when you said it. Turned me on.”

Mickey grins. “How’d I look?”

Ian looks up at the ceiling. He considers the right word. But then it’s there, and it’s an easy choice. “Sexy,” he says. “You looked sexy. And beautiful.”

There’s a little pause, and Mickey bites his lip. “Beautiful?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, and he reaches for Mickey’s wrist again. Still red, but it will fade. He kisses it again. He will always kiss Mickey’s wrists like this.

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a long time, so Ian doesn’t either. Ian feels sleepy in a perfect way. Like he’s in the sun, or after a long swim.

Ian reaches for Mickey’s face and eases his chin up. Mickey looks like he wants to be kissed, so Ian gives him what he wants, and Mickey reaches for his face, his palm still a bit rough, but warm. Soon they will sleep, curled up like this, and in the morning he will look at Mickey’s wrists again, because he cares about Mickey so much. He is quickly becoming everything Ian has ever wanted. He wants to tell Mickey that, but he knows he can’t yet. Mickey isn’t ready to hear it.

Mickey opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t.

Ian squints a little. “What is it? You can tell me.”

“I,” Mickey says softly. “I’ve always wanted to do that. I never thought I’d be able to. Ya know? Let go like that.”

Ian’s lips part and he searches Mickey’s eyes.

“Be a…you know,” Mickey says. “Like, be like that. All the way in it like that.”

Ian’s hand meets Mickey’s cheek. “Thank you for trusting me to get you there.”

Mickey hums and closes his eyes. “I’m so tired.”

Ian’s hand slides into Mickey’s hair. “You should sleep.” He kisses him one last time, and Mickey keeps his eyes closed when they part.

Before long, Mickey’s breathing deepens. Ian is still awake, looking at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of Mickey in his arms. Ian smiles, huffs one tiny laugh, and closes his eyes too.

Chapter Text

Lip lives in a white two-bedroom, one-bathroom house at the end of the block. There’s a curved doorway from the small living room to the tiny dining room to the even tinier kitchen. It’s kind of a dump, honestly. But there are fresh flowers on the dining room table. Real ones, like from a grocery store, or that lady who has the shop by the station. Either Tami is trying to do some “self-care” like she read about in that magazine, or Lip is in trouble for smoking again.

“Want some of this stuff?” Lip sets down a plate with cheese and crackers and some apples on it. “Tami is doing this thing where she makes little plates of stuff and calls it dinner.”

“Hey,” calls a voice from the kitchen. “I heard that. Plus, it’s lunch.”

Lip cracks a sly smile. “So you got my message?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, pulling out his phone as it buzzes. The Earl. Crap. “Wait, hold on. It’s work.”

A text from Jane. Clare called in sick. Can you cover tonight?

God, Ian hates to say no to people. He’s never been good at it. Too easily swayed. But he’s all the way over here, and then plans to go see Mickey at Patsy’s before they can go home together, so…

“Just say no,” Lip says.

Ian shoots him a look. “You don’t even know what it says.”

“I know you. I know your face.” Lip pops a cracker into his mouth. “Say no.”

Ian sighs.

Can’t tonight. Sorry.

He stares at his reply, second guesses himself, but finally hits send. He sets the phone down on the table.

“So,” Lip says. He claps his hands together. “Change of plan.”

Ian reaches for an apple but doesn’t bite into it. “Yeah, why didn’t you just tell me the plan on the phone? Or text it?”

“Didn’t want to leave a trail,” Lip says.

Ian laughs a little, but Lip isn’t laughing.

“Wait, are you serious?” He nervously raises the apple to his lips and takes a bite.

Lips nods. “We aren’t going to involve a lawyer. Too risky. Too expensive. Even if we know them. I thought of something else.”

The apple is juicy and Ian took too big of a bite. “What?”

“You have to trust me though,” Lip says. “And be willing to bend reality a bit.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Bend reality?”

“Well, legality.” Lip sits back from the table and stares at him. “We’re going to pull an Aunt Ginger.”

Ian doesn’t get it. Not at first. Then his eyes widen. “An Aunt—”

“The will, Ian. Remember what we did with the will? Not the body, Jesus.”

A clatter from the kitchen. “The what?!”

Lip and Ian’s heads snap to the kitchen. “Nothing!”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Ian hisses. “Make up a fucking will?”

Lip glances over his shoulder. “Look, the guy who did Ginger’s is still there. Price is right, he can do anything. How much money do you have?”

“What, on me? Like forty bucks.”

“No, like at home.”

Ian thinks of the bank account. He thinks of the money he brings home in his pockets at night, of Mickey’s wrinkled paychecks.

He thinks of the money he gave Lip to buy a house. This house.

“Not as much as you do,” Ian says, gesturing around. He never mentions it. Never alludes to the fact that he’s had to stretch and scramble despite once having had a nice chunk of money.

Lip shakes his head. “We’re broke. Brad and I are trying to get the shop off the ground but those other guys keep trying to undercut us. Tammi’s been working at two salons to keep us afloat.”

Ian clenches his jaw. “How much?”

“$800.”

“What? For paper?”

“Documents. Notarization,” Lip says. “Not to mention the whole legality issue. I’m shocked it’s not more, honestly.”

Ian pushes the plate away and leans closer. “If I do this, that’s like all my savings. I’ve finally been able to save with all the money I’m making at the bar, and now Mickey helping with bills and stuff, and rent, but—”

“Look,” Lip says. “Ian. The only way this works is to get this guy to help us out. We can do some of it. We can get the state to verify that Mickey is Mickey with a birth certificate and ID. We can get a copy of the deed. But we can’t manufacture a will without this guy.”

“Not we,” Ian says, setting his jaw. “It’s me. Me and Mickey. Us.”

Lip’s mouth curls up. “Oh, it’s an us now?”

“It’s already been an us.” Ian tries to hide his annoyance. “Besides, if the two of us fall apart, at least Mickey will be taken care of.” He looks down at his hands. He doesn’t want them to fall apart. Like, ever. But it won’t be only up to him. He doesn’t have the right to demand it. He knows that. But knowing and feeling are different. “You’re sure he won’t budge on 800?”

“He absolutely won’t,” Lip says, and he reaches for the plate again. Slides it over. “But when it’s done, it gets filed with the city. And you’re almost home free. Literally. You should have brought Mickey. We could have all talked it over, and I could finally meet the fuckin’ guy.”

Ian shifts in his seat.

“Wait,” Lip says. “You haven’t told him?”

Ian hesitates. “Not exactly.”

“Ian!”

“I just didn’t know how. But I’ll work it out.”

“You better.”

Ian picks his phone off the table and sighs, opening the text icon. “If they let me come in late maybe I can cover for my coworker after all. Gonna need the money.”

*
He managed to stay at Lip’s long enough that the lunch rush was over. He played with Freddy and put up with Tammi longer than anticipated. But he doesn’t have a lot of time. Jane is already letting him come in two hours late. He still needs to check in with Mickey and tell him he can’t wait around for him.

The busser is cleaning tables fast and a few waitresses are standing around at the counter.

“Oh, hey,” one of them says. “I’ll get him. He’s probably slammed though. Rush just calmed down.”

Ian nods. “It’ll just take a minute.”

But Mickey comes out quickly. His face is flushed from the heat of the dishwasher. Ian half expects Mickey to kiss him. He doesn’t, but he smiles.

“You’re early,” Mickey says. He gestures toward a booth and they sit. “Gonna be at least a couple more hours. You should see it back there.”

Ian smiles back. “I can’t stay. I picked up a shift at The Earl. Clare called in. Hope that’s okay.”

Mickey shrugs a shoulder and squints. “Why wouldn’t it be okay? Get that money, man. I’ll be waiting at home for ya. I got a book to read.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Mickey nods once. “Stopped at that bookstore on the way here. Got a graphic memoir about Jeffrey Dahmer when he was a teenager.”

“Jeffrey Dahmer wrote a memoir?” Ian is horrified.

Mickey laughs. "‘Course not. It’s by some guy that knew him in high school. It looks creepy as fuck. Good bedtime reading.”

Ian smiles. “I’m glad you’re gonna read.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, sort of quietly. “Yeah, it’s not so bad.”

Ian dares to bump Mickey’s hand with his, and Mickey grins. He bumps Ian’s back.

“So listen,” Ian says carefully. “I’ve been thinking about the house.”

Mickey scrubs his hands over his face and groans. “Jesus Christ, this again.”

“Just hear me out,” Ian says. “I’ve been talking to…okay look, I’ve been talking to my brother about it.”

“Whaddya have to talk to him about it for? Not his business, it’s mine.”

Fuck. He has a point, of course. “Because he can help,” Ian says. “Make it easier to get it sold. Help us with the paperwork. We have a plan.”

Mickey clenches his jaw once. “You gonna let me in on this plan? Or are you two just gonna go ahead without me?”

Ian reaches for Mickey’s hand more fully, but Mickey draws it back from the table. Ian isn’t sure if it’s because he’s mad or he doesn’t want to show affection so openly here. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Ian says softly. “You act like you don’t care about it, but I know that you do. You do, right?”

Mickey hesitates but nods quietly.

“You deserve to be free of that house,” Ian says.

It’s quiet for a minute except for the clatter of dishes and a mishmash of voices.

“Tell me what we have to do,” Mickey says and reaches his hand out again. “Just talk fast.”

*

That couple is sitting at the bar again. Old fashioned and a glass of sauvignon blanc. The woman is blonde and wearing a blue dress. He’s still in an expensive-looking suit. They seem to be waiting patiently. He can tell they don’t know Clare’s not coming.

A ticket pops up, and he starts making a dirty martini. When Morgan comes over to pick it up she scowls like always. She hates them both now, after that day with no ticket. Oh, well.

He chuckles to himself and helps someone else at the bar. Dovetail Kolsch and a pinot noir for the lady. They pay in cash and tip him five dollars. Five dollars! He slides it into the glass container behind the bar and checks for another ticket. Nothing yet. It’s been pretty slow so far, but it’s early.

He sees the couple talking quietly together, faces starting to show concern. He catches the man’s eye and heads over. The woman’s glass is almost empty so he grabs a bottle on the way. She usually has two glasses.

“Another?” Ian gestures with the bottle.

She finishes the last sip of her wine and pushes it toward him. “Please.”

The man still has half of his drink left, so Ian doesn’t offer. He’s about to walk away when the man speaks.

The man reaches for her hand. “Jasmine here was wondering if Clare is coming in tonight.”

Jasmine’s eyes are blue and hopeful. The man raises an eyebrow.

Ian thinks about saying something more complicated. Something like she probably called in sick because she can’t deal with you showing up all the time, but he just shakes his head instead. “Not tonight. Sorry.”

Jasmine’s face falls a little. She turns to the man. “I told you this would happen. She’s already not returning our calls.”

Ian doesn’t know if he’s supposed to back away or what. But he’s nosy and wants to know the rest of the conversation.

The man slides a hand around Jasmine’s bare shoulder. Jasmine almost looks like she’s about to recoil, but she steels herself and sighs.

“Anything else?” Ian’s tone is bright and final, and the man waves him off as Jasmine plays with the bottom of her wine glass, probably wishing she was anywhere else but here.

*

Two weeks later, Ian is leaning on the kitchen counter, eyes firmly on his laptop. He doesn’t hear the lock open because he has his headphones on, so when Mickey throws open the door, he jumps.

“Sorry,” Mickey says when Ian pulls his earbuds out. He drops some mail on the counter and holds up an envelope. “Look. Proof I exist.”

Ian shuts the laptop and holds out his hand with a smile. Mickey hands him the envelope. “They said it would take longer! This is great.”

Mickey shrugs a shoulder. “It’s the least this fuckin’ city could do for me,” he says.

Ian hadn’t gone with him to the office. He was able to pick up a shift, and obviously is trying to scoop up as much money as possible these days. He made Mickey swear up and down that he’d go, and the way Mickey stormed into The Earl hours later spitting angry words about “total fuckin’ bureaucracy” told Ian he had made it there.

Now Ian carefully reaches into the envelope and pulls out the paper. When he unfolds it he sees everything right in the boxes. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich, August 10, 1994.

“You’re sure you don’t want me calling you Mikhailo?” Ian smiles when Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Only my mom can call me Mikhailo, and she’s fuckin’ dead. No thank you.” Mickey picks up the other mail, some sort of bill he throws back on the counter, and some sort of coupon, which he starts to fidget with. “No one ever says it right anyway,” he grumbles under his breath.

Ian frowns. “Am I saying it wrong?”

Mickey curls the coupon in his hand. “Nah, it’s just that when people try and say it they add extra…what’s the type of letter that’s like a e i o u?”

“Vowels?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, rolling the coupon into a tube. “Those. People add more vowels. More i or e sounds”

Ian smiles.

“What,” Mickey grunts.

“Look at you talking about vowels,” Ian murmurs. “I didn’t think you were listening to me that day. I remember you being bored out of your mind.”

Mickey lets the tube of paper unfurl in his hands and fall back on the counter. “Wouldn’t shut up about it. Of course I was listening. Plus you looked good, where else am I gonna look?”

Ian grins, and he wonders if he’s starting to blush. His cheeks feel warm.

Mickey grins. “Anyways, I got it. Congrats to me. I was born.”

Ian is distracted. He is looking at the certificate. There are Mickey’s parents’ names, typed neatly in the boxes. MOTHER and FATHER. He knows better than to talk about Mickey’s dad.

Ian touches the name on the paper as he looks up. “Your mom’s name was Laura?”

Mickey doesn’t answer, just one short nod.

“It’s a nice name,” Ian says gently.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Not like I ever called her that. Not like how you did with your parents.”

“Hm,” Ian hums. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. They just never acted like real parents, so they never earned those other names.”

Mickey picks up the other piece of mail and inspects it, but doesn’t look up at Ian. Ian looks from the mail to Mickey’s face and back again. Mickey shifts his jaw.

“What’s wrong? The bill?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Nah, it’s just…” He looks at Ian, and his eyes look different. Strained, almost. “Just talking about my mom. Not used to it.”

Ian carefully folds the birth certificate again and slides it back into its envelope.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says gently. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not,” Mickey snaps, but then takes a deep breath and steadies his voice. “I’m not upset.” His eyes drop to the envelope and he stares at it, not speaking, not meeting Ian’s eyes.

After a moment, Ian looks around the room, the weight in the air starting to feel palpable. “Do you…I heated up a burrito before you came in. Do you want it? Or I can heat another one up too. Or we could make some pizza rolls or go somewhere or—”

“I probably wasn’t even born on the 10th,” Mickey says suddenly. “I think I was born on the 9th.”

Ian squints. “What?”

Mickey raises his head and meets Ian’s eyes. “Yeah. I think the date’s wrong.”

Ian leans in closer. “How could they not know when you were born?”

“Well, I’m sure my mom knew.” Mickey shifts his jaw and leans closer too. “But it don’t matter what anyone says except Terry.”

Ian leans across the counter and carefully reaches for Mickey’s hand. “They didn’t have to tell anyone on the day you were born?”

“Nah,” Mickey says, taking Ian’s hand. “Cause see, I told you we were all born at home, right? Because my dad thought it was better, and we didn’t have any money anyway?”

“Yeah,” Ian says slowly.

“Well, he also didn’t want anyone else in their business, so no midwife or any other person who knew what they were fuckin’ doing.” Mickey shakes his head. “He just left my mom to do it herself. She always had to do everything herself. Terry would yell at her even when she was having a fucking baby.”

Ian’s eyes widen. He tries to imagine a woman in labor being yelled at.

Mickey must see the thought on Ian’s face. He nods. “So you can see why she didn’t wanna be around him. When she was like that. Havin’ me.”

“How did it start?” Ian doesn’t want to press him, but Mickey seems like he does want to talk after all.

“She was walking back from the store and it, you know, the whole water thing. It broke all over the fuckin’ sidewalk. But she didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to see Terry. So she didn’t make any noise. She just kept her mouth shut and kept walking.”

Ian thinks of when Carl was born. Monica’s water didn’t break at home as it had with Debbie, but he remembers the way she groaned, so deeply, like the ground was rumbling beneath her. He tries to imagine that noise, the noises she made, disappearing. It’s impossible. She made them every time. The same sounds. The same raw, animalistic sounds.

“What about other people?” Ian imagines the neighbors, all outside on the hot street.

Mickey shrugs. “She never said anything about people outside even though there must have been. She just said she didn’t want to be inside with Terry and whatever fuckin’ nazi friends he had over.”

“Understandable,” Ian says, almost under his breath.

Mickey’s voice gets tight and he clears his throat. He pauses. “She looked up, and the sun was starting to go down. She said the sky was all her favorite colors at once. Like it was some sort of present just for her. To keep her company when she was hurtin’.”

Ian slides his thumb over the back of Mickey’s hand.

Mickey clears his throat again. “She walked until it started to hurt too bad. It was getting dark. So she started walking home. She didn’t want to go in, but she had to. She was wearing a dress and could feel my head ready to come out. She said she reached under and touched it.”

“Holy shit,” Ian breathes.

“Yeah. She barely got home. Had to crawl up the front steps. Still never made a noise. She didn’t want Terry to come out.” Mickey clears his throat again. “So she went inside, kneeled down by the door, and pushed me out fast before Terry even knew what was happening.”

“Woah, really?”

“Mhm,” Mickey says. His jaw shifts again. “But then Terry heard me cry, so he found us by the door. My mom was there all bloody and whatever. He told her to clean it all up.”

Ian scoffs. “You had just been born and your dad was worried about the mess?”

Mickey scoffs. “Well, that and he was also mad I wasn’t a girl.”

Ian turns Mickey’s hand over and traces the lines on his palm. “And she told you this story?”

Mickey nods and takes a breath. “Every year on the 9th. She’d point out the spot by the door where I was born and all. She’d tell me about the sunset. She’d always do that on the 9th, not the 10th.”

Ian looks down at the birth certificate in the envelope. He knows it’s wrong. He knows just like Mickey knows. He looks back up at Mickey.

Mickey nods. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying. The 9th. Even if it was dark, it hadn’t been dark for long. In summer the sun sometimes doesn’t go down til almost 9. So I was probably born at like what,” Mickey glances up at the ceiling, then back down. “9:30? 10 tops? So that’d be August 9th, not the 10th.”

“When did the 10th get written down if there wasn’t anybody there?”

Mickey drops Ian’s hand and breathes in a bit sharply. “It was a week later before he dragged her downtown so they could get more benefits. Terry probably said it was the 10th and my mom was scared to correct him or she’d get backhanded with a newborn in her arms. But it’s not like it fucking matters.”

“Of course it matters,” Ian says quietly. “It mattered to her, I bet.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but he nods.

Ian draws his hand back from where it was resting on the counter, just outside Mickey’s reach. “What did she look like? Your mom?”

Mickey stands up straighter. “Like my sister. So kinda like me, I guess. Black hair, blue eyes. I don’t know. She was short. Thin. Just kind of small.”

Ian is about to say something else when Mickey clears his throat and meets Ian’s eyes.

“Would’ve liked you,” he says. “Would have liked you a lot.”

Ian smiles a small smile. He fights the urge to take Mickey’s hand in his again. “I would have liked her too.”

Mickey blinks his eyes fast. “Yeah.”

Ian hesitates. “Mickey, how did she—”

“I can’t talk about this anymore,” Mickey says quietly, and turns away. “Let’s just eat. I’m starving.”

*

The storefront is a copy store, which Ian supposes is appropriate. There’s one neon sign in the window spelling out Notary and one that says Check Ca$hing. Not sketchy at all.

The guy at the counter looks mad even though Ian hasn’t said anything yet. For a second he loses his nerve. Ian bites at his lip.

“Can I help you?” The guy says gruffly. His arms are crossed. The hair on his arms is dark and thick.

He remembers what Lip told him to say. “Um, I’m here about Zemansky?”

The man stares at him like he doesn’t understand what he’s saying. “What about Zemansky?”

Ian shifts his feet. Remember the code, Ian. “About notarizing some construction permits?”

The man looks at him for a long time. “You aren’t who I talked to before. How do I know you know anything about construction?”

Ian wants to babble, wants to say that it was his brother, that this guy should believe him, that he has the money and please just give him what he needs. But he doesn’t. Play it cool. Play it cool.

He’s never been able to play it cool.

He carefully considers what to say. “I went to school for it.”

“You gonna add on an addition?” The man raises an eyebrow.

Fuck, Ian doesn’t know if they are still speaking in code or what.

The man gestures with his chin to Ian’s hands. He’s holding an envelope they both know holds eight 100-dollar bills.

“Is that your permit proposal?” The man asks carefully. “Is it all there?”

“Y—yeah,” Ian says. He takes a step forward and sets it on the counter. ‘It’s all there.”

The man looks at it before picking it up. He pulls out a pocket knife. Ian holds his breath as the man uses it to slice the top of the envelope open. He looks inside and slides the envelope below the counter, probably counting the bills.

“Okay,” the man says. He raises his head again, sizing Ian up. “I’ve got it here.” He reaches over to a box and pulls out a large envelope with a clasp. He pushes it across the counter to Ian but doesn’t raise his fingers from it. He stares into Ian’s eyes and his face hardens a little.

“You have any problems, you take it up with someone else,” he says firmly. “I did my job.”

Ian nods. “Got it.”

The man releases his fingers. “I hope your house project works out. Lots of new construction around here. House values going up.”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Thanks.” He picks up the envelope, gestures with it once, and then he’s out the door.

*

Ian’s so tired. He’s been tired for almost a half hour, but Mickey is sitting up with the nightstand light on, lips moving quietly as he reads along to his book. Ian hates to interrupt him when he’s reading, even if it’s another book about a serial killer. He stares at Mickey until Mickey glances over quickly.

“I’m almost done,” Mickey grunts. “Keep your shirt on.”

Ian looks down at his bare chest. He feels like being a smartass. "My shirt’s already off.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. He thumbs the top corner of the page down, a habit Ian did his best to dissuade, but Mickey must have seen it somewhere because he said it was “what real readers do.” He sets the book down and turns off the light, scooting down into Ian’s open arms.

Ian hums happily. “Finally,” he says.

“Such a fuckin’ sap,” Mickey chortles.

Ian’s hand slides down Mickey’s back, slips lower. He loves that Mickey wants to be naked when he sleeps. Of course, Ian likes it too. It was the first thing he started doing when he was finally out of his family’s house and into his own space.

Mickey presses his hips a little closer against Ian’s thigh.

Ian smiles. “Are you trying to tell me you wanna fuck?”

Mickey presses a little harder. “It workin’?”

“Yeah.” Ian says with a laugh, and pulls Mickey on top of him. “I’m so tired though. You need to be on top.”

Mickey freezes.

“Oh, god,” Ian says quickly. “Not that. Not top me. Fuck no.”

“Good,” Mickey says. “Cause I was about to say no fuckin’ way. Not interested.”

Ian chuckles and pulls Mickey’s head down so their lips can touch. They kiss through their smiles, almost chastely, and then start to relax into a softer kiss, then a little wetter, and finally their lips are starting to push and pull. It flows so naturally, at the same rhythm, its own entity.

Ian’s thumbs slide over Mickey’s cheekbones and jawline before starting to slide down his back again, one palm smoothing over his ass. Mickey parts his legs, sliding one knee on either side of Ian.

“Love when you’re on top.” Ian’s voice is deep, and when Mickey starts to raise up and lean back, Ian’s hands grab onto his thick hips.

Mickey is mostly a shadow; just a bit of light coming off the street. “Part of what you like is watching me though,” Mickey teases. “And you can’t see me in the dark.”

Ian’s fingers tighten on Mickey’s hips. “Turn the light on and get the lube then.”

When Mickey turns on the light, he’s got a big grin on his face. He drops the lube on the bed and swiftly catches Ian’s mouth with his. His tongue is soft and insistent, just like always. Ian’s tongue meets him with just as much care and precision. He’s never been with anyone who uses his tongue as deftly and confidently as Mickey does. It’s incredibly sexy.

Ian can feel Mickey’s growing hardness against his belly, and he knows his own dick is brushing the cleft of Mickey’s ass, something he knows Mickey loves. Ian reaches down and grips Mickey’s cheeks again, starting to squeeze together so his dick is pressed between them more securely.

Mickey breathes hotly into Ian’s mouth, the tiniest little sound.

Ian’s tongue curls around Mickey’s before he draws it back into his mouth. “You like feeling me like this?”

“Yeah,” Mickey whispers. “Makes me want it.”

“How much prep?” Ian asks, one hand leaving Mickey’s ass to feel around on the bed for the lube. Sometimes Mickey likes a lot. Sometimes almost none.

“Let me do it tonight,” Mickey breathes. “And you watch.”

Ian can almost feel his eyes darken. Fuck. Yes. “Turn around,” he growls. “Show me.”

Mickey clicks his talented tongue. “Not that way,” he says. “Watch my face.”

Ian sighs. Fuck, that’s hot. He swallows and hands Mickey the bottle.

Mickey grins and pops the cap. “You remember how much you had to prep me the first time?”

Ian does.

“Cause of your size,” Mickey says, his voice starting to slow down, tease. “Because you knew I was being greedy and wasn’t ready yet.” Mickey’s fingers are so wet now, and when he reaches back, he takes Ian in his hand, sliding up and down Ian’s dick so completely that Ian’s toes curl.

Ian huffs out a breath toward the ceiling and meets Mickey’s intense gaze. Suddenly Mickey drops Ian’s cock and rises up on his knees. He bites his lip and closes his eyes.

Ian can tell what he’s doing. Mickey is circling his rim slowly with the pad of his finger, teasing the sensitive skin, making himself ache for entry. It’s one of Ian’s favorite things to do to him. Moving torturously slow, just shy of pressing in. so when he finally does, he always gets a groan out of Mickey.

“You are greedy,” Ian gasps.

“Damn right,” Mickey says. “I know what I want.” With that, Mickey’s jaw drops and he exhales a deep groan. The first finger at least, and with the way Mickey’s mouth is open, it might be two at once, right away. He knows Mickey loves the slight burn, the immediate stretch.

“What do you want?” Ian’s hands scratch against Mickey’s thighs.

Mickey’s head rocks back and Ian can see Mickey’s forearm straining behind him. “Want it to be your big fuckin’ cock stretchin’ me out right now.”

Ian fights a proud quirk of the lip. “You aren’t ready for it yet.”

Mickey rocks his hips back, and Ian can tell in a moment when he’s found his prostate.

Mickey gasps, mouth open, a shudder. “Still want it.”

Ian hums. “How many are in there?”

“T-two,”

“Mmm, good. But I know you can take three. Can you do that for me?”

Mickey nods fast, eyes closed.

“That’s it,” Ian encourages. “Fuck, you look so good.”

Mickey groans. Ian can tell all three fingers are inside him by the shaky exhale, the complete relaxation of his features.

“Rock back,” Ian says, voice low. “Find your spot again.”

Mickey has a hint of a smile. “I know where it is.”

“Then fucking find it,” Ian grunts, just a flash of the dominant attitude that Mickey craves in bed. “Now.”

It’s almost immediate. Mickey starts to speed up. “There. Oh shit!”

In this position, Ian can almost, almost almost touch the tip of his cock to Mickey’s rim. If Mickey moved his fingers out of the way, Ian could slip right inside him. But it’s not time yet.

“Look at you,” Ian says. “Like showing off for me?”

“Yeah.” Mickey’s lips hardly move around his gasp. His mouth is open wide in pleasure.

“Yeah, you do.” Ian’s hands skim up Mickey’s thighs again and scratch up his chest, teasing his nipples. He brushes them tenderly before giving them a healthy tug, and then finally, a pinch. Mickey’s body jerks, a long moan, nearly drooling. “Bet you wanna show me that open ass.”

Mickey nods fast, eyes tight as Ian’s controlled pinch deepens just this side of too painful. When Ian releases them, Mickey gulps in air. His fingers move inside himself. “Yeah. Lemme show you.”

Ian sidesteps his plea. “But you said for me to just watch your face. And your face says you’re ready for me to fuck you.”

Mickey’s eyes find his, focusing. “I’m ready. Please.” He pulls his hand away from himself.

Ian wants to see Mickey ride him. He really does. But he also desperately wants to thrust down into him, control the pace, top him the way Mickey wants and needs to be topped.

Fuck it.

Ian grabs Mickey, an arm wrapping around his middle, and turns him out onto his back.

Mickey gasps at the rough movement. “Thought you were too tired.”

Ian cocks an eyebrow. “You did a good job waking me up.”

Mickey’s hands slide up Ian’s arms and hook around his neck. Ian can tell he wants to beg. But he doesn’t beg. He just lies there and breathes, woozy,

“You did so well telling me you wanted to play with yourself,” Ian murmurs. He reaches down and guides himself to Mickey’s wet rim. He presses against him slowly, just slightly inside, just to the exact inch where Mickey starts to gasp, before pulling back. “But it didn’t feel like me, did it?” Glide, gasp, pull back. “You need more than that.” Glide. Gasp.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes. Another inch presses in. A drag back.

“C’mon,” Ian says, and his head swims. A chant of Mickey Mickey Mickey banging around his brain. “Tell me.”

Mickey meets his eyes. “I need more than that. ‘Cause nothing feels like you do.” He shudders. “Please.”

Ian’s weight is holding Mickey down, and he’s pressing into him further, and further, and Mickey moans and grabs at Ian’s shoulders.

“You’re so good, Mick,” Ian whispers, and he bottoms out.

For all their talking, all their teasing, it should be frantic, rough. But something happens when Ian fully enters him. They slow. They stare at each other. Mickey licks his lips and his breath shakes out. His fingers are so tight on Ian’s shoulders, holding on for dear life.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes.

“So good,” Ian whispers again, and he doesn’t know if he is praising Mickey again or what, but the words drip from his tongue easily.

Ian’s hips are moving carefully. Practiced, but somehow new.

“Full.” Mickey groans, eyes rolling back. “Fuck, I’m so full.”

“You take it all,” Ian says, in awe. He gives Mickey a firmer press of the hips, moving a little faster. “Love how much you want this.”

“Ian,” Mickey whispers. “This is so….” But he doesn’t finish. Mickey’s eyes are firm on his, wide and beautiful. He bites his lip and closes his eyes again, mouth opening, a little sigh.

“I know,” Ian breathes. Because this is the best it’s ever been. They are connected and close, so warm and passionate, their bodies straining and pressing together again. Waking each other up, in every way.

The realization hits Ian so fast it’s like a flash of light, like the light on Mickey’s face, the same face that looks overwhelmed with pleasure.

Love.

They are making love.

Ian gasps. Mickey is tight around him, perfectly stretching, the way easy and wet. Mickey’s eyes are still closed, but when they open, Ian can see the word there too. Love.

“I’m,” Mickey pants. He’s going to come soon.

Ian slows down, not ready yet. Ian isn’t ready for this to be over. Mickey huffs one tiny protest, but when Ian looks at him again he can tell Mickey isn’t disappointed. Not really.

“Wanna come with you,” Ian whispers, and the dominant tone is gone. It’s a tone of wonder, of revelation. There is only this. Their chests together, breath heaving, fingertips tight against each other.

He bites the words back. He bites them back.

They move. Ian sets a perfect pace. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just exactly like this, exactly the way that Mickey likes. Mickey licks his lips and then bites down on them, a noise in his throat that rises up and out.

The feeling rises slowly but steadily. He can feel Mickey starting to breathe faster. They will come together, gasping, and they will need to pull apart, and Ian just isn’t ready. He isn’t ready to be apart from Mickey.

He never wants to be apart from Mickey.

He bites the words back.

Suddenly Mickey’s eyes grow wide. “I have to—I’m going to—”

Ian’s body shifts and curls, hitting Mickey’s most sensitive spot again and again. Mickey is shaking. Ian’s mouth caresses his, his tongue slipping against Mickey’s, an invitation.

“Show me,” Ian whispers in his mouth. “Mick, show me.”

Mickey cries out, Ian’s name rushing from his lips. Ian catches Mickey’s mouth again, his own orgasm starting to grip his limbs, promising release. Their breath is hot and hotter, and then almost not there at all, almost gone completely, just like words, the words that slip and slide like hands. And then the wetness between them is there, and then the wetness inside Mickey is there too, and they are floating somewhere, somewhere beautiful, in a place no one can hurt them. In a place that is just theirs, that they have built together.

They land back into themselves with a sigh, their skin flushed and warm. Ian opens his eyes.

Ian pulls back from Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey’s eyes are glassy. Not like subspace. Not like that. Like…

The tear slips out from the outer corner of Mickey’s right eye and glides down to settle on Mickey’s collarbone. Another follows. And Mickey lies there, looking surprised. He smiles. Almost a laugh. He sniffs once and blinks. Two more tears fall, but he doesn’t wipe them away.

“Weird,” Mickey says. He shakes his head. “I’ve never—”

“I love you,” Ian says. The words weren’t planned. He doesn’t remember forming them with his lips. He feels like they fell right out of his heart and floated up into the air to rest gently next to those tears.

Mickey’s face is unreadable at first. He still looks startled from crying, from this big feeling he always talks about. Ian knows now what that feeling is.

Ian’s thumb brushes against Mickey’s cheek, tracing the damp line the tear left behind. “Mickey, I love you so much.”

Mickey’s chin trembles slightly. He sniffs hard. He attempts a smile, but it looks like he’s holding back sobs. Ian never thought he would see Mickey like this.

Ian’s thumb travels to Mickey’s lower lip. “You don’t have to say it back,” Ian murmurs. “But I couldn’t wait anymore.”

Mickey slowly nods, and Ian’s fingers trace down Mickey’s jaw to his collarbone, where the tears rest, before settling against his chest.

Mickey’s mouth opens and closes, then opens again. He looks right into Ian’s eyes. His voice is hardly a whisper. “I’ve never said it to anyone before. I don’t know how.”

Ian smiles softly, almost shy. “It’s the first time I’ve said it to someone. And I’m glad it was you.”

Mickey’s nod is slight, but there. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead he meets Ian’s mouth with his own. Their kiss is every answer to every question, the words written out in ink, every vowel sacred, tiny comforting sounds. They kiss for a second, for a minute, for an hour. Ian loses track. Ian only knows that when Mickey pulls back, they are smiling.

“Say it again,” Mickey whispers.

Chapter Text

Mickey says bending completely over like this is very different than leaning over. Leaning against a dumpster, tree, or bathroom wall was impersonal, just how he wanted it. He would lean over just enough to let the guy in, but not any more than that.

But Ian doesn’t want to think about it. The possession he feels for Mickey is pure and complete. Especially like this, Mickey on his knees, body shifting forward with the power of Ian’s thrusts. Ian’s hands are tight on his hips. Mickey says it makes him feel submissive, and when he’s in the mood, it’s heaven.

“M’gonna come,” Mickey gasps. He tries to raise a hand up to touch himself.

Ian’s voice is low. “No.” He grabs at Mickey’s shoulder with one hand and pulls him back harder. “You can take more. I know you can.”

Mickey groans and drops his hand away from himself. “Oh, fuck. Yeah.”

Ian shifts just a little, which must do something because Mickey’s head falls forward. He moans even louder.

“See?” Ian’s voice is calm and even. “Thought so.”

But it’s not enough. Mickey needs more to come as hard as Ian wants him to. He wants him screaming.

“Ah!” Mickey cries out. “Oh shit. Feels so fucking good.”

Ian snaps his hips hard and yanks Mickey back faster. And then Ian knows what to say. He hasn’t said it since that time—well, the first time—with those handcuffs. But he wants to say it. Mickey deserves to hear it.

Ian’s hand races down Mickey’s back and grips his hair as he speeds up.

Mickey lets out a long, hard moan, a whispered “Yeah. Fuck me.”

“That’s it,” Ian growls. “That’s a good little slut.”

Mickey starts to shake. “Yeah, Ian, fuck.”

“Now you can touch yourself.” Ian groans as Mickey’s top half falls to the bed so he can grip himself.

Mickey’s hand is moving fast, a low moan.

“Love when you bend over for me.” A pull of Mickey’s hair as Ian pushes his head down. “You like it like this?”

Mickey’s body strains. “Yeah! Oh, shit, I want you to come in me.”

“Look at you, begging for my come.” Ian’s voice is low and commanding. “Tell me what you are.”

Mickey moans. “I’m a slut.”

Ian pounds into him. “Louder.”

“I’m a slut!” Mickey yells, and he’s coming, coming so hard, just like Ian wanted him to. Ian lets go of Mickey’s hair, but Mickey doesn’t move much. His ass is still in the air and Ian holds onto it.

“That’s it,” Ian says gently. He starts to slow down and then pulls out entirely. His dick is still screaming hard. He’s about to start to jack off when he hears Mickey’s voice.

“Keep going,” Mickey whines, batting his hand behind him. “Keep fucking me. Want you to come like this.”

Ian hesitates only for a second before he slams into him again. Mickey cries out, and Ian moves fast, chasing down the white-hot feeling rising in him. He is praising Mickey, thanking him for this, calling him good, so good. Ian fills him up, groaning low and gripping tight. Ian pulls out and reaches down to Mickey’s hole, sliding his finger against it, pushing his dripping come back into Mickey’s ass.

“Fuuuuuck.” Mickey groans. “Get my plug.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, but Mickey is still on his stomach and can’t see him.

“Are you serious?” Ian wants him to be serious. It’s incredibly hot.

“Yeah, man. Get it.”

Ian pulls open the drawer and finds it. Mickey is about to tell him to hurry, Ian can tell.

“Get all of it,” Mickey pants. “Push it in again. I’m losing it.”

Ian’s jaw drops as he pushes his come in again. Fuck this is hot. Filthy. Sexy.

The plug is on the thicker side, a solid step down from him, but still pretty big. It should keep him full. Mickey breathes deeply as it is seated inside him. Ian gives it a gentle pat and bends down to plant a kiss on Mickey’s ass cheek.

“Mmm,” Ian hums. “How long are you gonna keep it in there?”

“Be good if I could take it to work, but I’ll get sore,” Mickey rolls over on his back and gives a cocky smile. “But for now it’s fucking perfect.”

“Love to think about my come in you,” Ian says, voice rattling. “Fuck, I didn’t know that was a kink of mine until you came along.”

“Well, you’re welcome.” Mickey laughs. “I know I gotta take it out soon. It’s just—just wanna lie here with it in for a minute.” He closes his eyes and lets out a whistle.

“You haven’t done this before. Worn a plug after, I mean.” Ian leans down on one elbow and carefully slides his hand onto Mickey’s chest. “What brought it on?”

“The way you were talkin’ to me,” Mickey says. “Fuck that was good. Thanks for sayin’ it again.”

Ian’s fingers trace circles on his chest. “I’m glad I could do that for you.” His voice is quiet, almost in awe. It was something he never dreamed he could do, but here they are. And he likes it. A lot.

Mickey sighs and drags a hand over his face. “Don’t wanna go to work. Night shift my ass. Gonna get so fucking tired.”

“Mmm,” Ian hums. He leans down and kisses Mickey’s neck softly. “I’ll make you pancakes when you get home.”

Mickey’s fingers slide against Ian’s hair. “Could be like five in the fucking morning.”

Ian kisses him, once, quickly. “I’ll be up.”

“No, you will not be up.” Mickey is serious. “You better still be asleep when I get back. Thought you were trying to do better with, what’s it called, sleep hygiene?”

“Bah,” Ian says, and rolls over. “Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I?’

“Yeah, ya did.” Mickey sighs and subtly shifts his body. “Doctor’s orders.”

Ian thinks of the appointment he just had last week. He was honest about how his sleep schedule was all screwed up now. Between his work, Mickey’s work, studying for the GED, and then of course all the sex at all hours of the day, he isn’t always getting enough sleep. Not enough sleep gets him manic. Or tells him he’s manic. A cause and a symptom, all in one. Dr. Wyman reminded Ian of this. Ian knows this. Even Mickey knows this now, even if he still isn’t really sure what manic looks like.

“Yeah, okay,” Ian says with a groan. “Okay, I promise I’ll be asleep.”

“Better be,” Mickey says. He shifts again and draws in a quick breath, then another one.

The plug. Ian grins, fingers reaching down and giving it a little press. “Good spot?”

“Mmm,” Mickey smiles, then sighs. “Real good.”

Ian nuzzles into his neck and presses a little harder. “Sure you can’t go another round?”

Mickey sighs as Ian kisses his neck. A little hum. “What time is it?”

Ian reluctantly pulls back and checks his watch. “Almost 10.”

“Fuck, I gotta go,” Mickey says. Ian can see the plug between his cheeks when Mickey stands up and stretches. He fights the urge to press on it again, convince Mickey to bend over again for him, make Mickey thrash and moan. Wants to mark up Mickey’s neck, bruise him all the way down his chest, wants to suck Mickey’s beautiful thick dick into his mouth until he shoots down his throat. He wants to—

Mickey looks over his shoulder. “Jesus Christ, you look fuckin’ feral. You can get on me later.”

Ian grins with an arched eyebrow. “I’m counting on it.”

*

Ian’s lunch is still in front of him, where it’s been sitting for about an hour. Salad and a sandwich, and neither one has been touched.

“I’m so done with studying,” Ian grumbles to himself, poking his laptop screen. “If I don’t pass, it’s because of this fucking math.”

Mickey rolls over in bed. It’s almost two in the afternoon. He’s sleepy and his hair is ruffled. Ian’s glad Mickey got some good sleep. He had slid into bed around eight in the morning, just as Ian was starting to stir. Ian started to think about initiating sex. But when he turned over, Mickey was already fast asleep.

Now Mickey sits up and rubs his eyes. “You need to quit gettin’ all psyched out. Bein’ hard on yourself.”

“I just really wanna pass. It’s coming up so fast.” Ian tries not to panic.

Mickey slowly rises from bed and crosses over to Ian at the table. He puts his hands on Ian’s raised shoulders, and they drop in relief. Mickey can always calm him.

“You’ll pass,” Mickey says quietly. “Ya just gotta relax a bit. You’ll set off one of those panic attacks.”

Ian looks up at him with wide eyes. “Where did you learn that?”

Mickey shrugs one shoulder, a little smile. “Maybe I’ve been reading.”

Ian’s hand finds Mickey’s where it rests on his shoulder. He wants to say he loves him, but he doesn’t want to pressure Mickey. Ian hasn’t said it since that night in bed. “Really?”

“Mhmm,” Mickey hums. “I couldn’t remember what that attack thing was called so I just kept typing words on the computer until I figured it out. Took a while.”

Fuck. Ian smiles slowly, thinking of Mickey’s perseverance. “Thank you.”

Mickey bends down and kisses the top of his head. “No big deal.”

Ian is about to argue that it is a big deal. A very big deal. But instead, he turns in his chair and pulls Mickey into his lap.

Mickey smiles. God, he’s handsome.

“Thought you were gonna study,” he says.

Ian smiles back. “Maybe I wanna teach you a thing or two.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. His tongue finds his cheek, a slow grin. “Is that right?”

Their kiss is soft but grows more insistent, and the laptop puts itself to sleep, forgotten.

*

This is getting ridiculous.

The couple is here again, staring at Clare, whispering to each other as they ease into their seats at the bar.

Ian sets his jaw and pulls out the wine. He doesn’t say anything as he pours, but Jasmine says “thank you” just the same. He pulls out the whiskey and a lowball glass.

“No cherry.” The man’s voice is stern, his eyes hard.

Ian wants to scream. He already knows no cherry. It reminds him of all the stupid old fucks at The Fairy Tail. That one guy, the one who taught him how to make a Manhattan in the first place.

Ian’s voice is overly sweet. Kill him with kindness–maybe. “Of course. Would you like a menu tonight?”

The man isn’t even looking at him anymore. His eyes follow Clare. Jasmine looks at him, and something in her falters. Jealousy? Fear?

“No, thank you,” Jasmine says, and manages a small smile. “We’d like to speak with Clare, if you don’t mind?”

Ian casts a quick glance in Clare’s direction. She’s talking to a man in a blue suit. The man is smiling at her, and she quickly puts her hand on his arm. Ian can’t tell if it’s genuine or a performance. But when she turns back to face the wall, her smile starts to fade.

His hand touches her back quickly when he reaches her. “Hey. You okay?”

Clare takes a steadying breath. “I don’t want to talk with them. He’s mad at me because I said no.”

“No to what?”

She shifts her feet and pauses before she speaks. “To the money. The money he offered me to sleep with them.”

Ian glances over at the front of the restaurant. Jane is talking with the host, distracted. Ian scans the rest of the room and there’s Paul, pulling a woman’s chair out for her. As Paul steps away, he senses Ian’s gaze. He must, because then he’s meeting Ian’s eyes, his eyebrow raised. A question. Ian gives a short gesture of his head and Paul comes over. When he turns back, Clare is quickly wiping at her eye.

“He called today and offered me more. A lot more. And I don’t know what to do.” She wipes her eye again and swallows. “I need—I need to go take a break or something.”

Paul comes behind the bar and touches Ian’s elbow. The three of them stand next to each other like they are holding each other up. A hand here and there and there. Clare’s hand finds Ian’s and she squeezes.

“I think Clare has to take a quick break,” Ian says carefully. When he looks up at Paul, he gestures toward the couple with his eyes.

Paul looks over his shoulder. “Them again?”

“They need to leave,” Ian says firmly. “We need them to leave.”

“N-no,” Clare says quickly, and drops Ian’s hand. “I’ll be fine. It’s fine. I just need to go to the bathroom for a sec.”

“Clare,” Paul says. “Use the one in the back. I don’t want them following you. I’ll take care of this.”

Clare scurries out, the man in the blue suit watching her go with a confused look. Ian watches her go, turning the corner toward the kitchen, and beyond that, the office and the small bathroom beside the dry storage. He stands there for a moment, not taking his eyes off where she went.

“Excuse me?” The man in the blue suit smiles when Ian tears his eyes away. “Could I possibly get another?” He holds up a glass. “She talked me into trying the whiskey from Evanston. It’s interesting! I kinda like it.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, one more glance up before he reaches for the man’s glass. “Um, yeah it’s pretty good.” He puts the guy’s used glass in the bin behind the bar and reaches up for a new glass.

“What’s it called again?”

Ian reaches for the bottle and pours. “It’s called FEW?” He says it like he’s not sure. “Yeah. FEW.” He picks up the old coaster and puts another one down, setting the new drink on top. He looks further down the bar where Paul is gesturing to the door. The man’s hand is on Jasmine’s, and Jasmine looks almost afraid.

“You look so familiar,” the guy says, and Ian’s eyes snap over.

“What?” There’s an immediate drop in Ian’s stomach.

The man squints his eyes, sizing him up. “I said you look familiar. Did you ever work at Bellemore?”

Ian shakes his head. He swallows. “No.”

“Huh.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I could have sworn.”

The restaurant is suddenly much louder than he thought. He feels his feet below him, grounding him. Trying to ground him.

Say something. Just say fucking anything.

“Nice place?” Ian fakes brightness. “I’ve never been there.”

The man dramatically swoons a little. “Oh, god, yes. They have this thing called Oyster Pie that has caviar on it. It’s insane. And the best foie gras in the city. They shave it and put it with this marmalade. It’s really different. You should definitely check it out.”

Ian nods. “Sounds great.” He looks over again. Jasmine is pulling on the man’s arm. The man raises his voice, but Paul doesn’t back down. Ian can’t hear what they are saying, but things are definitely moving in the right direction. In his distraction, he realizes he’s missed something the guy said.

Ian looks back. “I’m sorry,” he says. He shifts his feet. “What?”

The guy smiles over the top of his drink. “I asked if you’ve had the foie gras here. I’m considering it.”

“Oh,” Ian says. He wonders how he can possibly extract himself from this conversation. But he’s a bartender. Making conversation is his job. “I haven’t. I hear it’s good though.”

“I think I’ll get some,” the guy says, tapping his hand on the bar. “Can I order it here?”

Ian busies himself reaching for a menu. “Um, yeah, definitely. Did you want the toast or the housemade crackers?”

“Oooh,” the guy says, and looks up, thinking. “I’ll get the crackers.”

Ian nods, turns to the computer, and starts typing it in.

“I swear I know you,” the guy says. “It’s crazy. I just can’t place you. I’m Sam. Do you remember me from anywhere?”

Ian reaches for the whiskey again. The guy is almost empty already.

“Ian!”

Morgan’s voice is sharp as always. She gives him a “what the fuck” look and he realizes she has a ticket up.

“Sorry,” Ian says. The man’s eyes still search Ian’s face. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’ve met before.” He reaches for the ticket, and his fingers shake. He watches his hands go through the motions of preparing the gin and tonic, pouring the beer, grabbing a bottle of wine roughly by the neck.

Morgan stares at him until he’s put all her drinks on the wait stand. She doesn’t say thank you. She just turns and leaves.

Sam starts laughing. “What the fuck is her problem?”

Ian forces a shrug. “She hates me.”

Sam’s eyes slide so quickly over Ian’s body that Ian almost doesn’t notice. “Who could hate someone as handsome as you?”

Ian swallows.

Sam raises his hands up. “I’m sorry, did I read something wrong? I don’t mean to offend you. I thought you were—”

“It’s fine,” Ian says quickly. “I am. So no, it’s not that. I just…I have a boyfriend, so.”

“Gotcha.” Sam is obviously a little embarrassed. “There it is. Ah, well.”

Ian nods quickly, just once. He manages a smile when the guy keeps staring at him.

“I’m sorry to keep going on like this,” Sam says again. He shakes his head slowly. “It’s just…I cannot for the life of me—”

Ian takes a deep breath and puts his hands on the bar. Fuck it. Just fuck it all. “Probably The Fairy Tail.”

Sam’s mouth hangs open. He snaps his fingers. “No fucking way.” He sits back in his chair.

“Yeah,” Ian says sharply. “So.”

“You were a bartender there, too!” Sam lights up, pointing at him. “I remember now! You’re him! I was only there once. My first time being, you know, out? I was young. But I remember watching you make drinks. I could tell you were young too, like me. Probably too young to be making drinks for people. But you seemed so confident. I was so not confident.”

Bartending. Only bartending. Shit, that’s new.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I was too young.”

He was too young for lots of things.

Sam rubs his forehead and laughs a little. “God, I was so nervous to be in that place at all. Like I said, only there once. I realized it wasn’t my scene. I was too…”

Ian can’t help it. He cracks a smile. “Normal?”

Sam grins at him. He has a nice smile. “I was going to say boring, but I guess normal works too.”

“Normal is good,” Ian says. “I’m a lot more normal now too.”

Sam finishes his whiskey and squints. “Now?”

Ian shrugs. “Nevermind.”

“I’m just glad I finally placed you,” Sam says with a finality that means that part of the conversation can be over. Thank god. “That would have bugged me all night!”

Ian nods. “Well, uh. That’s good I guess?”

In record time, here comes Morgan with the plate of foie gras. She narrows her eyes as she walks, but turns on the charm when she reaches Sam.

“You’re gonna love this,” she says, with a flirty smile.

“Excellent,” Sam says. He waits to eat while she still stands there, grinning.

“Thanks, Morgan.” Ian’s voice is too cheerful for their tenuous relationship, but God she needs to quit embarrassing herself.

She subtly shoots him a look. “No problem,” she says to Sam more than Ian.

“Well.” Sam looks at his plate. “This looks delicious. Thank you.”

Morgan finally leaves, and Ian cracks a smile.

“Talk about the wrong tree,” Sam laughs. He puts some foie gras on a cracker and tilts his head. “Am I really that hard to clock?”

Ian shakes his head. “Not at all.”

“Takes one to know one, I guess.” He pops the cracker into his mouth and swoons. “Fuck this is good.”

When Sam lowers his hand Ian sees his expensive watch. He notices how nice the suit is. Damn. His tip could be impressive. Things are conversational, not flirty. This he can handle.

“So,” Ian gestures with the whiskey before pouring. “What do you do?”

Sam finishes chewing. “Real estate investor,” he says.

Interesting. Ian wants to jump at this, but he has to play it cool. “Like, buying up houses?”

“Mm,” Sam says, his face says kind of. “Yes and no. I think of what needs to be done and other people buy up the houses and land for me. I’ve been at it for a couple of years. It’s fun. Creative. Sometimes can be hard in the old neighborhoods, you know.” He looks down at his plate. ‘Where are you from?”

“South side,” Ian says. He glances down the bar at Paul again, who is talking with a group of women, who hang on his every word. “Born and bred.”

“Doing a lot of work there. It’s up and coming for sure.”

Ian sighs. “Gentrified, you mean.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, that’s a word for it.”

Ian sighs. “It’s changed a lot. I moved on. My family’s house was sold to someone like you.”

Sam isn’t sure how to take that, so he chews thoughtfully.

Ian hesitates. Should he? He should. “My boyfriend wants to sell his family’s house, actually. It’s barely livable, but it’s on a good corner.”

The guy slowly reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small card. “Here,” he says. “Have him call me.”

Ian looks down at the card. Sam Chumack. Ian slips it into his pocket.

“Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Ian.”

The man nods with a smile. “I’d shake your hand but I’m full of foie gras.” He tilts his head. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

“Mickey,” Ian says. “Mickey Milkovich.”

The man’s eyes widen a little. “Ukrainian. I’m Ukrainian! Nice. So I’m like, genetically bound to help him.”

Ian grins. “We’d like that.” He hears another ticket pop up and Paul is starting to look at him, so he says it again. “We’d really like that.”

Sam nods. “Have him call me.”

*

The courthouse is bigger than Ian thought. Fancy, of course. He and Mickey are sitting on a bench outside the office. The forged will is waiting in its envelope. Mickey didn’t want to hold it. He felt nervous. So there it is, getting damp in Ian’s hands.

“Hey,” Ian says with a smile.

Mickey turns his head, eyes nervous. Ian reaches over and kisses him, his lips firm and committed. When he pulls back, Mickey is smiling.

“What the fuck was that for?” Mickey looks down, and Ian can see the flush in his cheeks.

“Do I need a reason?” Ian taps his fingers on Mickey’s chin until he turns.

“Nah,” Mickey says. “You can fuckin’ kiss me any time you feel like it.”

Ian smiles, a little flushed himself. He leans over again. A quick kiss. Two.

Ian is about to tell Mickey something, something he should probably just keep to himself. Ian bites his tongue. Literally bites it. Bites it so he won’t say the words written on his breastbone. Someday we’ll get married here.

He lets out a shaky breath. Would Mickey ever even want to get married? Married to him? Married at all? Does Ian himself want to be married someday? To Mickey? To anyone? It’s not like Frank and Monica were the picture of marital bliss. It’s not like he’s had any functional and healthy relationships in the past. Fiona certainly didn’t. Lip? The jury’s still out.

So why does he feel like he could? Not now, of course. But someday. He could hold Mickey’s hand like that. Sign some papers. Be able to say something like my husband.

“What is it?” Mickey sounds impatient, but Ian knows it’s just the stress of waiting.

Ian shakes his head. He opens his mouth and closes it. He reaches for Mickey’s hand. What is it that he wants to say? He swallows. “I was just thinking about, uh—”

“Mikhailo Milkovich?”

The woman at the counter’s voice is bright. She said his name like Mickle Hi Loo.

Mickey rolls his eyes a little but stands, still holding onto Ian’s hand. Ian’s about to drop it, but Mickey grips it tighter.

“Yeah.” Mickey’s voice is curt, but he raises a hand.

Together they walk up to the window. Mickey doesn’t drop his hand. It almost feels awkward, but it also feels nice.

“Let’s see what you brought me,” the woman says cheerfully.

Ian passes it over. “Um, we need to file this will?”

“Of course! That’s what I’m here for.” She gives them a smile as she takes the envelope from Ian’s hand and pulls the papers out.

Ian watches as she studies the paper, her face unreadable. She drags her fingertip down the paper and makes a little huh sound.

Shit.

“Is…Is something the matter?” Ian’s throat is dry when he swallows.

She shakes her head. “Oh, nothing. My mother’s name is Laura too. And born in June like your mom! Just a few days apart. What a coincidence!”

“Yeah,” Mickey says casually, probably trying to hide his nerves. “Crazy.”

She turns over the next page and then slowly tears her eyes away. She looks up and smiles. “Everything looks good! Thanks for being so prepared.”

Ian fights the flutter in his stomach and squeezes Mickey’s hand. “Uh, you’re welcome?”

“Just need you to sign here,” she says. She points to a line and Mickey drops Ian’s hand. He grabs the pen and signs fast, his fingers gripped tight at the bottom, just like they were in the library.

“And then again here, I need your initials.”

Mickey pauses for just a second and then signs MAM on the small line, the last M falling off the line a bit.

But apparently, it’s okay, because the woman brings out a stamp and stamps the paper. Notarized.

She writes a few things down on the stamp and looks up with a smile. “This will be filed and you’ll get a notice in 7-10 business days.”

Mickey nods once. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she says, looking down at her name list. She looks past their shoulders. “Miller?”

They both still stand there, surprised it was that easy. When she looks at them, she kind of looks confused.

“Have a good day now,” she says, and looks back over their shoulders. “Miller?”

Ian tugs on Mickey’s sleeve, and they leave the window.

“Holy fuck,” Ian whispers under his breath.

“I know,” Mickey whispers back, picking up his pace.

When they are out of earshot, Mickey stops and grabs Ian’s shirt.

“Can’t believe it,” he says.“Fuck. Thank you.”

Mickey is obviously flying on adrenaline from the whole situation and elated by how he’s another step closer to being free of the house.

“Now we gotta deal with the deed,” Ian says. “Should we find the office?”

Mickey shakes his head. “They probably want some sort of paper from the will being filed. Let’s just wait.” He smiles big and grabs at Ian’s hand again. “Can’t believe this shit.”

“I know.” Ian’s hand reaches for Mickey’s face and he kisses him, right there in the hall. He pulls away and looks around. He isn’t sure how comfortable Mickey is with the affection.

Mickey smiles again and pulls Ian down for another kiss. Immediately Mickey’s tongue presses into his mouth and Ian’s tongue responds. When he pulls back he sees it in front of them. The men’s bathroom.

He grins. “C’mon.”

Mickey turns and sees where Ian is looking. He looks back with his eyebrows raised. “Oh, hell yeah.”

The minute that they burst into the bathroom they are on each other. They don’t check stalls, they don’t see if anyone is at urinals or washing hands. They just grab and grab.

Mickey is already pulling at Ian’s pants, his belt, his hand sliding over him.

“God, I fucking love this cock,” Mickey pants.

Ian smiles as Mickey’s face goes slack. “Gonna make you wait. I have other plans for you.”

“Bring it,” Mickey grunts.

Ian glances over to the stalls. He knows better than to take the large one. He used to get in trouble when he’d go in the large one when he—

“What’s wrong?” Mickey puts a hand on his face. “Where’d you go? You okay?”

Ian swallows. He’s okay. “Yeah. C’mere. C’mon.”

Ian pushes Mickey into the stall and slams the door. The lock slides easily, and he’s on Mickey’s mouth, tongue on his tongue, fingers in his hair as he grips his head hard. Mickey lets himself be pulled, lets his face be caressed with Ian’s thumb.

“Ian,” Mickey whispers. “Touch me.”

Ian fights a groan and reaches down with one hand. He presses his hand against Mickey and shit, he’s hard already. Ian hums and reaches down with his other hand too, unfastening Mickey’s pants and sliding to the floor.

“Oh, shit,” Mickey gasps. “Yeah. Want this.”

Ian spits on Mickey’s cock. It’s a bit of a gamble, but Mickey groans as it lands. “Want what?”

Mickey’s head falls back against the stall wall.

“Want you to suck my dick.”

Ian licks up the underside of Mickey’s cock. It tastes good. He sucks the head, trying to work the precome out of him. Mickey beads up precome fast, and Ian wants it on his tongue as soon as possible.

Mickey’s hand reaches down and touches Ian’s hair. “Fuck, so good at this.”

The words hit Ian’s ears, and first, he loves it. It’s sexy, being praised for something he loves to do. Something he’s so good at.

But then.

Wait.

He suddenly remembers before. The Fairy Tail. It’s like a cold slap against his brain.

The praise. The praise he wanted to hear so much while it was happening. He would suck until he got the right words to fall.

The praise would echo in his head later, in the shower, trying to count how many dicks he had sucked that night. Thinking of all that come inside his body. He would spit into the drain until he forgot about it all. Until he climbed out to take more drugs or fuck someone again or talk someone’s ear off. Then the memories would fall off like water, dried up in a towel, thrown away in the corner of a room.

He tries to push it all down. Focus. He slides up and down Mickey’s cock, licking up the underside with every pass. It’s Mickey here. It’s Mickey. He glances up and Mickey is looking right at him, biting his lip.

“God,” Mickey groans, tipping his head back against the door, eyes up. “Yeah. Suck.”

He does. He sucks.

Wait.

The memory comes.

Such a good whore. Suck it harder for me.

It’s on his brain in a flash, and then it bangs around, harsh light on everything.

Thought I told you to suck it harder.

The toilet paper holder is digging into his side when he pulls back with a gasp. He grabs at Mickey’s dick to jack him off instead. Maybe this will be better. Just using his hand. Maybe he can calm down.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He suddenly is aware of the faint smell of piss from the toilet. Even in a courthouse, there’s bound to be piss somewhere. He sits back farther, and the toilet pushes against him.

Eyes shut. Eyes shut. Stroke. Stroke. Mickey’s gotta be close. His hand is getting wetter. Mickey always leaks so much. He loves that Mickey leaks so much. Focus on that. Focus.

Suck it.

Ian almost shakes his head. His eyes are shut so tight.

Gonna fuck your face. Hold your fucking head still.

Ian remembers how his head would get pressed against the door, how he’d sometimes gag as they gouged at his throat, the smell of sweat and piss on them, the sizes varying but the feeling just the same.

Remembers everything.

Stop.

He can stop now. Stop this.

Stop.

Suddenly Ian pulls back, opens his eyes, drops Mickey’s cock.

Mickey looks down fast, and his eyes widen. He immediately fastens his pants. He’s so fast Ian barely knows what’s happening. He holds his wet hand in his lap as if cradling a baby bird, as if holding something he wants to keep.

“Ian,” Mickey says quickly. His voice is soft and still. “What’s wrong?”

Ian starts shaking his head. Keeps shaking his head. ‘I can’t. I don’t want—”

Mickey tries to sit down next to him, but there isn’t room, so he sits on the toilet.

“I’m so sorry,” Ian gasps. “I’m just—”

“Ian,” Mickey says softly. He puts his hand on Ian’s arm but Ian yanks it away.

“I’m sorry.” Ian looks at where Mickey touched his arm. “I didn’t mean to pull away. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Mickey says soothingly. “It’s okay that you had to stop.”

“I thought I could make it go away.” Ian’s voice is trembling and strange. “But it didn’t go away.” He looks Mickey in the face. “Why won’t it go away?”

Mickey’s face is kind, but he doesn’t touch him.

Suddenly Ian starts to panic. Maybe Mickey doesn’t want to touch him?

“Mickey,” he says fast. “Why aren’t you touching me?”

“Do you want me to touch you? I don’t gotta touch you if you don’t want me to.”

Ian is about to say yes, say it’s okay, say please help me get back into my body, but then a door opens.

“Get the fuck out!” Mickey shouts.

“What?” A man’s voice, confused.

“I said go!”

Ian looks under the stall and sees a pair of nice shoes. They turn, and the door opens again.

Fuck, they can’t stay here like this. Someone else will come in any minute. Ian moves to stand. He feels like he’s watching himself from far away. Sees himself almost crying in a bathroom. Sees Mickey looking at him, so worried and sad.

“I need to go,” Ian blurts out. He fiddles with the door latch but can’t get it undone. His hands are shaking. “I need to—I can’t—”

The stall door swings open, and he’s finally free. Free of that stupid stall, the trigger. A trigger. That’s what it’s called. Part of him remembers learning that.

He feels so fucking stupid.

He vaguely hears Mickey’s voice saying his name, but he doesn’t answer. He turns his head and looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. He doesn’t look real. His face is almost a ghost, almost something unrecognizable.

Shit.

He flings the door open and he’s out of the bathroom. He hears Mickey behind him, and he’s still saying his name, and he’s trying to catch up. But Ian breaks into a run, running down the hall, running out the door to the building, down the stairs, almost tripping. Ian runs down the block, past the train, faster and faster, and he doesn’t know where he’s even going. Just away, away, away, away, away, away.

It’s June. Somehow that breaks through. It’s beautiful out. The lilacs bloom. The sun is warm, and he is warm. He can feel the sweat on his forehead, and under his arms, and his legs are getting tired. He is getting tired. But then he can start to see buildings. Start to see trees. Start to focus.

He slows down, then slows to a stop. He looks around. Fuck, where is he? He finds a street sign. He squints and turns. Looks at his surroundings.

Okay.

He can breathe. He can look around. He’s just standing still, wondering what’s next.

Mickey.

Shit. Mickey must be wondering where he is. Mickey is good. Mickey is who he loves. Mickey is the only person he has ever loved. And Ian trusts him. With everything. And Mickey said it was okay. Mickey said he didn’t have to touch if Ian didn’t want to, and if Ian wanted to touch, he had permission.

He has his own body. It’s his own body. It’s a body he shares with Mickey, but only when he wants to. He is safe with Mickey. No matter what happens, no matter if this happens, he knows he has Mickey beside him.

Ian reaches a shaky hand into his pocket and grabs his phone.

Mickey answers on the first ring. He’s out of breath.

“Where are you?” Mickey sounds so worried about him.

“I’m…I’m not sure. But I wanna go home.” Ian holds the phone tighter. “I really just wanna go home.”

“You far? I can come to you. I’m out walkin’.”

“I’m far,” Ian says. He wipes at his face. “I’m going to call a ride. I don’t want to take the train like this.”

“Yeah, don’t get on the train.” Mickey sounds more confident. “Don’t get on the train in case you—”

“Y-yeah,” Ian stutters.

“Can you stay where you are?” Mickey’s voice is firm. “I already called work. Fuck ‘em.”

Ian’s mouth opens. “You have to go, Mick.”

“Nah,” Mickey says. “Called in sick.”

Ian nods but doesn’t speak.

“You there?”

Ian’s mind catches up. “Yeah, I’m here.” He wants Mickey with him now. He turns in the direction he came in and starts walking back. “I’m walking back. Drop a pin and I’ll be there. We can call a car. Just don’t leave. Please.”

“I’ll wait all fuckin’ day,” Mickey says. And Ian knows he will.

*

On the ride home it’s quiet. Mickey doesn’t touch him. Not yet. Because Ian hasn’t said he could. Ian wants to touch him but isn’t sure how or where. So he keeps his hands in his lap.

Yet when they open their front door, Ian takes Mickey’s hand in his and pulls him toward the bed. Ian eases himself down and pulls the covers up. Mickey sits next to him, his eyes searching Ian’s.

Ian swallows and points toward the kitchen. His voice is tired and raspy, as if he’s been screaming all day. “Up in the cabinet by the plates, there’s a medicine bottle. Not the windowsill. I put this one in a separate spot.”

Mickey nods. “I remember. I’ll get it. Just one?”

“Yeah. One.”

Ian stares at the ceiling until Mickey comes back with the pill and a glass of water.

“What’s this gonna do?” Mickey’s voice is quiet and soothing.

“Just gonna help chill me out.” Ian sits up. “Not too strong. I’ll just be able to relax and fall asleep for a while.”

Mickey nods as Ian pops it in his mouth and swallows the water. When Ian lies back down he reaches for Mickey’s hand again.

Mickey holds his hand. He looks like he’s about to cry. He clenches his jaw and then shifts it back and forth. Then sniffs hard.

“Lie with me until I fall asleep?” Ian pats the bed next to him.

Mickey doesn’t let go of Ian’s hand, not even when he climbs up next to him to get under the covers.

Ian breathes deeply. This is good. This is safe.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey says. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Ian shakes his head and turns to face him. “This isn’t because of you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Neither did you,” Mickey says quietly. “God, I wanna fuck up everyone who treated you bad when you were doin’ that stuff.”

Ian manages a small smile. “Your arms would get tired.”

Mickey holds his hand a little tighter. “Still.”

Ian’s eyes are already starting to close. He doesn’t think it’s the med yet. It can’t be. But he’s with Mickey, and they are in their home, and Mickey will still be here when Ian wakes up.

*

It’s dark outside when Ian opens his eyes. He is facing the window, and the curtain is open so he can see himself reflected in the glass. He sighs and turns away toward the lamp.

He sees Mickey sitting in a chair, petting Bill, saying something softly to her.

“Hi,” Ian says.

Mickey’s head snaps up. “Hey,” he says carefully. “How…how do you feel?”

Ian stretches a little. “Better, I think.”

Mickey nods. “You slept a long time. You needed it.”

“Sleep hygiene,” Ian says with a soft smile. “Told you I’d work on it.” He squints a little. “How long have you been sitting there?”

Mickey shifts his jaw. “A while.”

Wow. Ian feels strange. Guilty. “Did you even eat anything?”

“Nah,” Mickey says.

Ian sits up slowly. “C’mere.”

Mickey picks Bill up and sets her on the floor. He swallows.

“I’m okay,” Ian says quietly. “I promise it’s okay.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything. He just folds Ian into his arms. This is different. It’s usually Ian doing the holding. Mickey curled up inside his arms, his cheek on Ian’s chest.

Ian breathes in deeply, breathes in Mickey’s scent. “Are you scared?”

Mickey holds him a little tighter. “Not scared.”

Ian reaches up until his fingers slide against Mickey’s neck. “Please don’t leave me over this.” He can feel his eyes burn.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Ian meets Mickey’s kind blue eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mickey says firmly.

Ian swallows carefully. “I know I’m not okay,” Ian says. “I thought I was. But I swear I’m working on it.”

Mickey nods, his hand strong against Ian’s back. “I know you are. Workin’ hard at it.”

Ian swallows and tears threaten to fall. “I didn’t want it to happen during sex. The shower is one thing. I can handle that. But I don’t want that in our sex life. I really didn’t want that to happen. Can’t believe I let that happen.”

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice is comforting and strong all at once. “You didn’t let it happen. Just happened. You couldn’t control it.”

Ian tries to blink back the tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Mickey’s eyes are so fixed on his. “Never apologize for this. Not fuckin’ ever. You hear me?”

“Okay,” It is almost lower than a whisper, almost just Ian mouthing the words.

“I’d—I’d never fuckin’ leave you.” Mickey glances up at the ceiling. “I don’t—look, I don’t ever wanna leave you. Okay?” Mickey doesn’t look at him, not right away. When he drops his head to meet Ian’s eyes again, he looks afraid. “That okay?”

“Yes,” Ian whispers, relieved.

Mickey turns them so they are side by side, looking into each other’s eyes.

Mickey still looks afraid. Vulnerable. “It’s okay that I don’t wanna leave you?”

Ian nods. “Yeah, it’s okay.” Ian traces his fingertips over the worried lines on Mickey’s forehead, traces down his other cheek, and down to his mouth.

Mickey’s face starts to relax. “What should I do? You okay?”

Ian nods slowly. “I want you to kiss me.”

Mickey looks at Ian’s lips and back up to his eyes. “You sure?”

Ian holds Mickey’s face. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Mickey’s fingers slowly curl around Ian’s neck as he pulls him closer. Mickey’s lips are so soft, so thick. They caress his, slotting perfectly. Not a deep kiss. No tongue or insistence. Just comfort. Comfort at last.

Ian holds him closer, his hands starting to move, just a little, almost shy. When he pulls away it’s with reluctance, but he isn’t ready to go any further tonight.

“I love you,” Ian whispers. His arm finds Mickey’s lower back and he pulls him closer, holding him. Mickey’s hands hold him too, a soft relief.

“Good,” Mickey whispers back.

*

The steps of the church are crooked, so Ian has to be careful when he steps down and enters through the side door. The irony of this being held at a church isn’t lost on him. But if they do AA, they might as well branch out I guess. Mickey said there wouldn’t be a sign. It’s not advertised for obvious reasons. Word of mouth, Mickey had said, but Ian doesn’t know whose mouth Mickey heard it from. He hasn’t asked what Mickey did to figure this out. But he’s grateful.

The hallway smells like stale coffee and church. The room is right there at the end. There are a few women milling around, some eating donuts, some laughing.

No men. He’s the only man. Fuck. Maybe this was a mistake.

But then someone catches his eye and waves.

He doesn’t know what to do, so he raises a hand back.

She makes her way over, smiling. “Hey there. I’m Kelly. Are you here for the group? We’d love to have you.”

He looks around the room again. “Is this…is this just for women or something? Because I can go. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

Kelly shakes her head and does a quick scan around the room. “All women today, but we have men sometimes! And non-binary people too. It’s open to everyone. You are welcome here. It’s safe.”

He looks around. There is a circle of chairs and some women are starting to sit down.

Her voice is bright. “Go grab some coffee! There’s water too. Then just grab a chair. We’ll start soon.”

He finds a seat in a grey folding chair and settles down. In a circle, there’s nowhere to hide. When he takes a drink, the coffee is as bad as he thought it would be. But he’s never been picky.

Kelly claps her hands together. “Okay, let’s get started!” She smiles so sincerely it puts Ian immediately at ease. “Gosh, I’m so glad to see all of you today.”

There’s a murmur in the group, soft sounds of agreement.

Kelly looks down at a notebook in her lap. “This is a support group for sex workers past and present. What you say here stays here, and you can use another name if you want to increase your anonymity. This is not a 12-step group, but we don’t use last names here.”

Ian is going to use his real name. His real name from now on, always.

Kelly looks around. “Who would like to start today? Just say your name and what’s on your mind. You’re safe here.”

It’s quiet. Ian looks around the room, then down at his hands, then at his feet, then up again.

Kelly is just about to speak when he blurts it out.

“I’m Ian.”

“Hi Ian,” the group says almost in unison.

“Oh,” Ian smiles a little. “I wasn’t expecting that. Hi.”

Light, friendly laughter.

“Um,” Ian swallows. “I don’t know where to start or what to say.” He looks at Kelly, in a slight sudden nervousness.

“Anywhere you like,” she says quietly. “Whatever you want to share.”

“Okay,” Ian takes a deep breath. “Um, okay. I was a…I worked at a place for a while where I started bartending and dancing, but then…you know. And one thing led to another and I was only doing that. Bathrooms, alleys, cars. And then started working at men’s houses, I guess? Sometimes for one man, sometimes even two or more. It was a lot. I don’t even have a number. Not even close.”

A few nodding of heads.

Ian looks down at his hands. “I’m not doing any of it anymore. But I’ve been having some trouble with flashbacks. Most of the time, I’m by myself when it happens. I don’t like it, but I can usually deal with it. But then it happened last week with my boyfriend when we were…um, doing something sexual.”

He suddenly feels very shy. He raises his head and makes eye contact with Kelly. She nods deeply, a little smile.

Ian takes a deep breath. “My boyfriend and I have been together a few months now. It’s my first relationship since all that other stuff happened.” He pauses. “First relationship ever really. We started really slow. I knew I needed to go slow. And my boyfriend was okay with that. So I guess I…I guess I thought it wouldn’t happen again. But it did. And I’m scared it will keep happening.”

Ian looks around the room, nervous. Anxious.

A woman in a red shirt. A woman in a blue dress. The room is pink and cream. Kelly’s hair is blonde and the carpet is grey.

Breathe.

He steadies himself again.

“I’m angry.” Ian says, and it’s like he’s surprised. He hasn’t let himself recognize the anger yet. But talking about it like this, with people who might just understand, is different. He balls up his fists in his lap. “It’s not his fault,” Ian says. “And I know it’s not mine either. But still. I just hate that it happened. That it had to barge in and fuck up my life again.”

He relaxes his fists. His voice is quiet when he speaks again. “I just hate everything about it. The job. What I did. Everything I did. I feel like it stole a lot of my life, and I can’t get it back. And I hate that it’s still affecting me, especially now that it happened with my boyfriend when we were doing something that was making me happy. It feels like it’s stealing more of my life.”

Ian turns his hands over. He looks at his palms, the lines. He knows the lines are supposed to tell the story of his life, but he doesn’t know how to read them.

He looks up again. “That’s all I guess. But, you know, thanks for listening.”

It’s quiet for a while, and then another woman speaks up.

“Hey, I’m Leigh.”

Ian joins the chorus. “Hi, Leigh.”

“The first time I flashed back during sex it really shook me up.” Leigh’s voice is confident but she bounces her leg. “It shook us both up. My husband knew that sometimes things would probably come up. It had happened in a previous relationship. But the reality is different, right?”

A murmur again.

Leigh puts her hand on her leg as if encouraging it to stop. She blows a breath out through pursed lips. “He says he supports me and loves me no matter what. And when it happens, he just holds me and tells me how much he loves me. But sometimes it’s hard for me to accept that as true. It’s really hard. I just keep thinking I should be…better by now. It’s been almost eight years. But it still happens.”

Another silence.

“I go by April,” a woman begins. She’s probably around Ian’s age.

“Hi, April.”

April looks over at Ian. “I lost a relationship because my girlfriend couldn’t deal with my job. She thought she could. But I guess not. So she dumped me. And I was really angry. I wasn’t mad at her. I felt mad at myself. I can’t even articulate why. I don’t feel like enough of us say that we feel anger. It’s like we aren’t allowed to be. Like we got ourselves into this and we should just accept it. But sometimes it’s just hard not to be angry.”

Ian nods his head and attempts a smile.

Kelly turns in her chair and grabs a book from the floor. “It’s interesting that you both brought up anger. Today I was hoping to share something from Brené Brown. I have a place bookmarked that might speak to what some people are feeling. Another perspective on anger.” She flips quickly through the book and puts her glasses on to read.

Some people close their eyes, so Ian does too.

Ian hears Kelly clear her throat as she begins. “Sometimes anger can mask a far more difficult emotion like grief, regret, or shame, and we need to use it to dig into what we’re really feeling.”

Kelly waits a moment before she speaks again. “Does anyone ever feel some of those emotions? Grief? Regret? Shame?”

Ian doesn’t know if it’s a question he’s supposed to answer. Yes, he feels all three sometimes. He raises his hand a little bit.

He hears another murmur and he opens his eyes. A few people have their hands up.

“I do,” April says. “I feel all of those.”

Ian catches her eye and nods. She nods back before speaking again.

“I’m still actively working, and it’s okay. I’m lucky to have relatively nice clients who I’ve been with for a while. I’m usually not ashamed of myself or my work. But I do feel shame when I try and have relationships. People don’t really get it. They look at me like I’m damaged or trying to be selfish. And they can’t compartmentalize it the way I can. They say things that lead to me feeling ashamed, and then I feel regret, and then I fall into a spiral.”

April wipes casually at one of her eyes with one finger and looks around the room.

Leigh nods. “I can relate to that,” she says gently. “It took a while for me to open myself up to a relationship because of shame.”

Someone raises their hand. “I’m Hannah.”

“Hey, Hannah.”

“I read that book, actually.” Hannah gestures to the book in Kelly’s lap. “And she helped me understand that we all have things to grieve, and that feeling grief is important. I feel grief that I lost so much of myself there for a while. I struggle with mental illness, and I wasn’t in my right mind a lot of the time. I made choices, but in retrospect, they don’t really feel like they were my choices.”

Ian fights to keep his mouth from dropping open. Holy shit.

It’s quiet. Should he talk again? Maybe?

Ian takes a deep breath. “I’m bipolar. And I was underage and manic. I was using a lot of drugs too. It made things easier. When I came down and quit the drugs, I kinda fell apart.”

Hannah nods with recognition. “Yes. Exactly.”

Ian lets out a long breath. Understood. He feels understood. It’s a strange feeling. He wonders if he deserves to feel understood. But here he is just the same, and Mickey cared enough to find this place, to know Ian needed it. And he’s grateful.

Before long, others speak up too. He finds himself leaning forward a few times, hanging on to their words. He doesn’t say anything else but nods a bit. Before he knows it, the meeting closes up.

People start folding up the chairs, chatting amongst themselves, leaning the closed chairs up against a wall. Leigh is helping Kelly with the coffee pot, and someone else is closing up the doughnut box and trying to pass it off to another woman. They are laughing. Easy laughter. Comfortable.

“Hi.”

Hannah’s voice is friendly and a little shy.

“Hey,” Ian says, feeling a little shy too.

“I just wanted to say thanks for sharing,” Hannah says. She’s a bit older than he is, maybe in her early 30s. Very beautiful and tall. “It really meant a lot that you could understand where I was coming from. I’m bipolar too.”

Ian nods, eyes wide. He kind of can’t believe this is happening.

“I danced for a while, and then I was full service for about four years,” she says. She sighs. “I had a lot of trouble staying down from mania. I wasn’t medicated and that didn’t help. And then the drugs. Sounds like you know how it goes.”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I didn’t know I was bipolar. Now I keep thinking that if I had known, nothing would have happened. I wouldn’t have done anything like that.”

Hannah shrugs. “The what-ifs drive me crazy, no pun intended.” She gives a little grin. A deep breath. “I’ve learned a lot of self-acceptance, but it’s been hard.”

“Maybe I’ll get there,” Ian says. “I’d like to get there.”

Hannah smiles. “Keep coming back here. It’s a supportive place. I mean, it’s a support group so it’s in the name, but you know what I mean. It helps. We understand each other.”

“I’ll keep coming,” Ian says, and he means it.

“Is touch okay with you?”

To be asked is strange, but he understands why she’s asking.

“Yeah,” Ian says.

He’s expecting a hug or something, but she extends her hand for a handshake. He takes it. Her hand is soft and warm.

“Same time next week,” Hannah says, putting her other hand into the handshake too, cupping his hand. “We’d love to see you.”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Next week.”

He ducks out, a bit overwhelmed. He makes his way out to the street. The sun is overhead, he can hear people talking in the restaurants as he walks along. Patio season. He walks the few blocks to the apartment, so impressed that Mickey found a group nearby. How did he do it? Mickey won’t tell him. But he knows it has to be hidden from the cops, and it sounds like Mickey has almost always been able to hide from cops.

God, he feels light. Light and comfortable. He feels a bit exhausted from the conversation, the heavy feelings. But above all these, lies the understanding. The healing that feels like it could fully be within reach.

Ian climbs the stairs to their apartment two at a time. When he opens the door he immediately sees Mickey standing in the kitchen, putting pizza rolls on a cookie sheet.

“This is gonna be good shit,” Mickey says when he sees Ian, gesturing to the pizza rolls. “I know your healthy ass will say no at first, but then you’ll be the one eatin’ most of ‘em. Just watch.”

Ian crosses the room and pulls Mickey into his arms. His kiss is soft. Simple. When he pulls back, Mickey smiles.

“Hi,” Mickey says, a grin and a quirk of the eyebrow.

“I missed you.” Ian kisses him again, and Mickey starts to slowly respond. They haven’t had sex since it happened, but they’ve kissed and held each other a lot. It reminds Ian of how they first began. He knows he’ll be ready again. Ian’s hand cups Mickey’s head, and he goes a little deeper, just a bit, and then starts to close the kiss up again. But then he changes his mind. One more small kiss before he fully pulls back. But he doesn’t step away.

“That was for finding me that meeting,” Ian says. “It was good. Really good. I’m gonna go back.”

Mickey smiles and pats his cheek, once, quickly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ian leans a little closer and holds Mickey to him. His hands slide up Mickey’s back and then to his head. He kisses him once more.

“Fuckin’ happy to see you,” Mickey says against his lips.

“I’m happy to see you, too.” Ian’s body feels soft and loose. Maybe Mickey will want to get wrapped up in his arms when they get into bed. They’ve been wearing boxers to bed since it all happened, but Ian plans to take them off tonight. He wants to be close to Mickey. Be close, finally, fully, with their bodies. Maybe not sex quite yet, maybe another group meeting first. Maybe just a little more time.

“I’m gonna eat all those pizza rolls,” Ian says with a smile.

“I know,” Mickey says. “But I’ll let you.”

Chapter Text

Ian jingles the keys in his hand before finding the right key, He slides it into the lock of the large closet where the liquor is kept. The key turns the lock and he flips on the light.

“Let’s go fast with this today.” Clare grabs the little stepstool and sets it down by the back wall. “I get so claustrophobic in here.”

“Yeah.” Ian takes the clipboard from Clare’s hand and looks down at the list. All the liquor bottles in the closet are arranged alphabetically by type. If they have to take inventory of all of this, at least it’s well organized.

Clare’s rings clink against the glass bottles as she counts and reads off the totals. Ian writes them down clearly and quickly until they are down past vodka and on to whiskey. He flips over the last piece of paper from the clipboard.

“Almost done,” he says.

Clare sits on the stool, fingers tapping quickly against the bottles, counting. “Four, two, four, four, three, five.”

Ian’s pencil scratches the paper, and soon they are finished. The pencil dangles from the string where it’s attached to the top of the clipboard. His hand is sweaty. He slides the pencil back in the clasp and taps the board twice.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Ian says. He offers Clare his hand to help her up.

She pauses, taking his hand in hers, but not moving.

Ian gives her hand a squeeze and a little pull. “Hey. You okay?”

She looks up at him. She pauses, then speaks. “I took the money.”

Ian holds her hand, confused. “What money?”

“The money to fuck them,” she says quietly, and shakes her head. “I took his money.”

Ian isn’t sure what to say. Isn’t sure why she’s telling him this. She drops his hand and pulls at her dark hair, bending her head low, almost to her lap.

“I took it,” she repeats, her voice slightly muffled. “And they just offered me more. It’s enough to pay my rent for three months. I don’t want to do it. But I feel like I have to.”

Ian doesn’t feel like he’s breathing. He reaches out and taps her on the back. “Hey. Look at me.”

Clare sighs and raises her head, slowly sitting up again. She looks tired.

Ian breathes out, and his voice is quiet. “Why do you feel like you have to?”

Her rings catch the light as she rubs her hands on her knees. “Because. Because, I mean, I already took the money the first time. They probably expect me to keep going. But I don’t want to fuck him. I only wanna fuck her, remember? But to fuck her I have to let him fuck me.”

Ian shakes his head. “What do you mean, ‘let him’? Is he forcing you to?”

“I’m consenting.” She pulls at her tights. “But it’s a means to an end. That’s all.”

A means to an end. That’s all.

Consent is a concept he didn’t even know about until he was done with the Fairy Tail. He was trying to find something online that described why he felt so shitty. After a while, he gave up googling. Everything just kept leading him to porn, and the last thing he wanted to think about was porn.

But one night, very late, he came across an article about sex work, and there it was.

Consent.

The more he read, the more something made his stomach churn. Made him sweat. Made him flip through a flash of disjointed images. Him on his knees, being facefucked within an inch of his life, so hard he couldn’t breathe. Him on the go-go box with a man’s hand fully down his pants, wrapped around his cock. Him on the set of the porno, the way the director said. “Just do it. Come on. Get on the bed.”

Did he consent to it? Did he consent, just by being there? Or was it more fucked up than that? Looser? He still doesn’t know. He went through with it. No one ever forced him. Not exactly. He sometimes wanted to do it. Or he just did it without thinking about it too much. Just thinking of the money. Thinking about the power he had in his sexuality. Sometimes not thinking at all, just feeling and moving. Being. But barely. The mania fueled him. The coke and everything else amplified it all. Not sleeping, just fucking. Fucking and fucking and fucking. All the time. At the club. In the alley. In the bathroom. At some rich fuck’s condo. Some car. A house where he had to sneak in the back so the neighbors wouldn’t see him with the married father of two. Picket Fence and everything. A dirty secret.

But now he knows what consent is. Mickey checking in with him. Him checking in with Mickey. Is this okay? And it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever experienced. Like when Ian is hard and ready, and Mickey is about to touch his straining cock, his weeping tip. This okay? and Ian whispers yes.

Yes.

Clare breathes out, a huff of air, almost a sarcastic laugh. “I mean, who even cares if he fucks me. He bought me. I might as well go through with it.”

Ian opens and closes his mouth. Opens it. “You don’t have to,” Ian says quietly. “If you don’t want to, you shouldn’t.” He pauses. Reconsiders his words. “I mean, you shouldn’t feel like you have to just because you took the money once.”

She sighs. “You don’t get it.”

Ian pauses. Swallows.

Clare stands up slowly. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says quickly, looking at the floor. A forced laugh. “You probably think…I mean, I don’t know what you think. Probably the worst of me. I guess I’m just a—”

“I took money for sex too.” He regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth, but he lets them hang in the air.

She looks up at him, mouth open slightly. “What do you mean? When?”

He stares into her eyes, straightens his shoulders. “A while ago. In Boystown. First I bartended, then I danced. Both jobs were second to me sucking dick and fucking for money.” He spits the words out like a bitter pith from a lemon. “I did a lot of that, Clare. A lot. I made good money, but I still feel disgusting. I even did a porno. I felt like I was in charge of that because I talked him from five hundred to six. I thought I was being so fucking smart.” He shakes his head.

Her mouth is still open. “Are you serious?”

Ian sighs and rubs his eyes. “Yes, I’m serious. So I know what it’s like. To regret. To feel trapped in it. But you can stop. You don’t have to keep doing it. I wish I hadn’t kept doing it when I wanted to stop. I wish—”

Clare throws her arms around him, squeezing. He doesn’t realize she’s crying at first.

“I wanna stop,” she says.

“You don’t owe anybody anything,” he whispers into her hair. “Especially not when it’s your body. That’s yours. It’s always yours. If you want to do it, go for it. There’s nothing wrong with sex work. But if you don’t want to do it, that’s different.”

She leans back in his arms, her eyes meeting his. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t.”

Ian nods. “You can tell them to fuck off. You can refuse it.”

“But Jasmine,” Clare chokes out. “I think I love her. I can’t just—”

“You can,” he says, firmly but gently. “You’re strong. So strong. But Clare, she’s not gonna leave him. She’s not.”

Clare’s voice is quiet. A sigh. “I know.”

“There are other people out there who will love you,” Ian says, and he squeezes her just a little bit. “You know that, right?”

Clare nods slowly. “I guess.”

He squeezes her a little harder. “They will. You’ll find someone and they’ll love you for who you are. They’ll love—”

His voice cracks, and he blinks fast, telling the tears not to come.

Clare lets go of him and puts her hands on his face. Her voice is kind. “You’re worth loving too. You are.”

Ian’s hand finds one of hers, right there on his cheek.

They stare at each other. It isn’t romantic. Isn’t sexual. Not at all. It’s just two vulnerable people, in a closet, still hopeful, so hopeful.

“Thanks.” Clare drops her hand. She breathes out slowly. “And thanks for telling me about that other stuff. I’m glad you’re doing what you want now.”

“Yeah,” Ian says softly. “Yeah. Me too.”

She smiles at him. Gives him a little shove. He smiles.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says.

They turn off the light and close the door behind them, locking it, locking everything that was said behind it. Ian hands her the keys. She tosses them in the air and catches them again. Over and over, all the way into the restaurant dining room. More people are starting to come in. The dinner shift is about to begin. They head behind the bar and Clare passes Paul the keys.

Paul slips them into his pocket and takes the clipboard from Ian’s hand, a quick glance down at the paper. “Everything good?”

“Yeah,” Ian says confidently, catching Clare’s eye. She smiles at him before placing a napkin in front of a waiting customer. “All good.”

Paul claps him on the back and Ian chuckles at the gesture. As Paul walks away, Ian looks out into the dining room before adjusting his collar. He feels calm. Centered. The only drugs in his system are his bipolar meds. The meds keep him healthy. Because now he knows that he deserves to be healthy. To be safe and cared for, to stand tall and brave. He can fully consent. He can lie down with Mickey in complete peace, can touch him and be touched by him, and no one can take that away from him. It’s his. His life, after all. And it’s just what he wants it to be.

*

“Sugar is the new sex,” Hannah says with a sigh, her tongue gliding over the strawberry ice cream in her waffle cone. “This is fucking fantastic. How’s yours?”

Ian scoops some ice cream into his mouth with the little plastic spoon, holding the paper cup steady. “Really fucking good,” he says, shifting a little on the bench.

“Who gets pistachio?” Hannah teases. “That seems odd.”

“I mean, strawberry? Ian says with a smile. “That’s basic.”

Hannah laughs. “What can I say? I’m a basic bitch.” She kicks him lightly with her foot.

Ian shakes his head. “Not even close.”

“Aww.” Hannah sits up straighter and turns a little to face him more directly. “So how have you been feeling? How’d you like group today? I’m so glad you came back.”

Ian smiles at her. “I liked it,” he says. “Everyone is really cool. It’s nice to be with people that, you know, get it?”

“Exactly,” Hannah catches a drip with her napkin. “That’s the biggest thing, right? We need people who understand. Civilians will never understand. They try, but there’s a little disconnect. They only know us from TV, and half of the time we’re just getting murdered.”

Ian ponders that as he takes another spoonful of ice cream. “I had a conversation with a friend about sex work the other day.” He doesn’t want to give any details. It doesn’t feel right. “I’m trying to not say anything about my past anymore. Unless I’m like, in group. But it came up with her.”

“How did that feel?” Hannah looks down at her ice cream, then out at the street, then back at him.

Ian shrugs a shoulder. “It felt like a fact of my life and less like something to be ashamed of. I can’t say much about the conversation, but I guess it felt…matter of fact? I still got kind of emotional. But it wasn’t really because I was disgusted with myself. Not like how I used to be.”

Hannah nods. “It’s kind of tricky feeling like it’s both a huge part of our history and something really distant at the same time. I feel like it’s good to poke at it so we can heal what we need to heal, but not dwell too hard. Not beat ourselves up. That kind of thing.”

Ian scoops the last of his ice cream in his mouth.

“Done already?” Hannah gasps. “You had so much control with that single scoop bullshit. Come on, man. Commit.”

Ian laughs. “My boyfriend has a sweet tooth too. I would have had to get more just for him.”

Hannah leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes against the sun. “Man after my own heart.”

“Do you have someone?” Ian sets the cup down on the bench.

“Nah,” Hannah says. “I’m too busy. Sex to me is pretty boring now anyway. Ergo sugar.”

“I love sex,” Ian says, and he’s sort of surprised to hear himself say it. “With Mickey at least. It’s different with him. It took a really, really long time before I was ready though. I didn’t really think about doing it again until I saw Mickey for the first time.”

“Like, right away?” Hannah looks back at him. “You wanted him right away?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, a slight smile, remembering how it was, so long ago it seems. “Right away.”

Hannah is down to the cone, so she takes a little bite. She chews thoughtfully. “Been a while since I’ve felt that way. I’m thinking more about women these days, but I don’t really know how to put myself out there. I’m too scared to use an app. I have no idea.” She sighs dramatically. “I guess I’ll stick with sweets for now.”

They sit quietly, listening to the birds, music from the cars at the stoplight, kids yelling about what flavors they want. Summer sounds.

“I’m taking the GED tomorrow,” Ian suddenly blurts out. “I’m scared shitless.”

“That’s wonderful!” Hannah smiles a big smile. “Ian! That’s huge.”

“It is,” Ian says nervously. “Mickey keeps telling me not to worry, but I can’t help it. If I stayed in high school, I would have passed that at least. At my school, they were just happy if you showed up. They didn’t care as much about academics. Studying for this is a lot harder, honestly.”

“Past is past,” Hannah says gently. “This thing is your future! What are you going to do?”

“Take the train over. It starts at 10. I thought about taking a car but—”

“I mean with your GED.” Hannah is almost done with her cone. “What are you going to do after you get it? Are you going to go to college?”

Ian shakes his head. “I can’t afford it. I make good money at work, but not that good.” He pauses. He hasn’t said what he wants out loud yet. Not even to Mickey. “But I thought that maybe…I don’t know. It’s kind of stupid. But I had a thing happen a couple of months ago where I needed an EMT, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Being an EMT.”

“You should do it!” Hannah’s voice is so bright. “My brother is a paramedic. He started as an EMT. It’s tough but really rewarding. I bet you’d be solid in a crisis. You seem to have your head on your shoulders.”

“Yeah?” Ian smiles a little. “Thanks.”

Hannah is finished now too. She throws the napkin in the garbage can and gestures with her head. They stand up and start to walk toward the church again. Hannah’s car is still parked at the corner. “How’s your mental health?”

He shrugs as he watches his feet on the sidewalk. “Under control, I think. I’ve been stressed out thinking about the testing, but I’m hanging in there. I tend to get manic in the summer so I’m keeping a close eye on it.”

“Me too,” she says. “Extended light.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Do you get depressed often?”

Ian shakes his head. Looks up at the trees. “Not as bad as before. Hypomania is usually a little more of an issue. I haven’t been depressed for a while. I’ve had panic attacks though. That’s kind of new in the last couple of years.”

“Oh shit,” she says quietly. “Those are tough. Sorry, honey.”

Ian waves it off. “That’s what the EMT thing was about. I had a panic attack on the train. But I’m doing a lot better. I’m just trying to take good care of myself. Meds, sleeping enough, that whole thing. I’ve been tired lately but I’m pretty sure that’s just studying.”

Hannah puts her hand on his arm. “Be careful,” she says. “Take it easy.”

Ian nods. “I know. I will.”

They slow as they reach Hannah’s car. Ian stands awkwardly, not sure if he should shake hands or what. Hannah smiles. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride home.”

“I live close,” Ian says. “I can walk really easily. Thanks though.”

She steps closer. “Are you okay to hug? You look like you could use one.”

He chuckles. “Sure.” He reaches out his arms. “A hug would be great.”

*

When he walks out of Malcolm X the next day, the sun is already going down. The air is still but it’s very warm. He crosses the street and looks at his phone. He’s already called a Lyft. Mickey was the one to encourage it, and now, hours later, Ian is thankful for the sense of permission.

The red car pulls up, a tiny hatchback, and Ian sighs. He doesn’t mean to be picky, but gosh he feels crammed into cars like this. His long legs, his height, his long hands pulling the door shut, just everything feeling long and tall. The woman doesn’t say much to him on the ride but keeps looking at him in the mirror. Ian pretends not to notice.

The GED test was tough. Tougher than he thought it would be. He’s completely exhausted.

But he’ll know in 24 hours.

24 short hours, and he’ll either have his GED or he won’t.

He’s hungry, kind of. He doesn’t know what he is. He hopes Mickey is home from work. He pictures him in the shower, the long hot shower he takes after he comes home, trying to clean all the grease off.

He leans his head back and closes his eyes. He feels the motion of the car, soothing and smooth. He can feel his mind begin to drift, and little by little he feels like he’s about to float off to sleep, but then the car comes to a stop and the driver clears her throat.

Ian’s eyes snap open. Did he fall asleep? He isn’t sure. He clears his throat too, mumbles a thank you as he opens the door and unfolds himself out into the street in front of his apartment.

The car pulls away and he takes a minute to look at the building. He wonders how much longer it will be here before it gets knocked down and replaced with a newer condo. The brick looks a bit sad and some of the paint around the windows is worn off. But the rent is reasonable and even though their studio apartment is small and scrunched together, it’s theirs, and he loves it.

He finds himself breathing hard as he climbs the stairs. It’s been a while since he’s been on a run. Two weeks maybe? Not like him. Not like him at all. But he’s felt an exhaustion he can’t shake. Every ounce of energy has been going to studying.

The door is unlocked. Mickey is back. Ian breaks into a smile as he opens the door, happy Mickey will be on the other side.

Ian doesn’t see him though. There’s a glass of whiskey on the table. It’s fairly dark now in the apartment. “Mick?”

Mickey comes out of the bathroom, walking a bit slowly. “Been waitin’. You didn’t text me.”

Ian pauses. “I was so distracted and worn out. I should have. I’m sorry.”

Mickey shrugs a shoulder. He sits down at the table, reaches for the glass, and takes a drink.

Ian takes a step forward and squints. He reaches over and turns the floor lamp on.

“Did I do something?” Ian is so confused. “Are you mad at me for not texting?”

Mickey doesn’t answer right away. He shifts his jaw. “Nah,” he says. He twists the glass around at the base. “Just feel kinda— I don’t know.”

There’s something in Mickey’s eyes when he looks up. Ian almost takes a step back when he sees it.

Nervous. Mickey is nervous.

That’s when Ian sees it, right there on the table. A folded piece of paper, folded over and over into a small, uneven square.

Ian gestures with his chin. “What’s that?”

“It’s for you.” Mickey pushes it across the table.

Ian reaches for it, picks it up, and holds it in his palm. “What is it?”

“Just open it,” Mickey says quietly.

The paper is wrinkled and worn. It’s as if it’s been folded and re-folded, shoved in a pocket, and pulled out again. Ian slowly opens it to a full page.

Ian’s eyes don’t focus on the words, just take in the look of it. There is Mickey’s handwriting, shaky but blunt. Written in pencil. Some words were erased. The remaining words are dark, like he pressed very hard.

“Out loud?” Ian asks.

“No,” Mickey says quickly. “Just…quiet to yourself.”

Ian nods and looks down again.

Ian

I wanna say thanks for helping me with reading. We don’t talk about it really but I’m fuckin glad you came to that Malcam X. I wuldnt read nothin if it wasnt for you. I like comics now and books about serel killers. Im glad I could help you with math.

A scribble, a dark mark. Ian wonders what Mickey was trying to say. Ian looks up, eyes wide, so touched by this.

Mickey shifts his jaw. “You read it all?”

Ian shakes his head, lips parted, a small smile.

Mickey gestures with his chin. “Keep going.”

you said that time at patsys that this part of my life is a paragraf and not a chapter but I hope its like a whole fuckin book. Maybe thats gay but I mean it.

No one has been like you before. I never felt how I do when Im with you. So I wanted to just say it like this

I love you too.

love Mickey

Ian feels like he’s in some other dimension, somewhere where his body doesn’t even exist. But then he can feel himself, can feel the paper in his hands. He looks up.

“Mickey,” Ian breathes.

“Loved you a while,” Mickey says quietly, rising from the table. A small, almost embarrassed shrug. “Just didn’t know how to say it.”

“Fuck,” Ian whispers. He pulls Mickey to him as if he’d float away. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” Mickey whispers, and then Mickey’s mouth is firm on his, and they are pressing closer and closer, and then Ian is here, in his body, rooted to the ground, holding tight to Mickey’s body. Ian’s hands hold Mickey’s face, and when Mickey breaks away, he gestures with his eyes to the paper still in Ian’s hand, pressed against his cheek.

“Can put that down now.” Mickey is a little breathless, smiling.

Ian grins. He pulls away and heads for the bedside table, slipping the note into the drawer.

“Coulda just tossed it,” Mickey laughs. “Not like you need it now.”

Ian comes back and holds Mickey by the waist. “Nah, I’m keeping that forever.”

Mickey pauses a little, almost a flinch. But he’s searching Ian’s eyes and biting his lip.

Forever.

Neither of them mentions the word, but when they kiss again, it’s with a new urgency. Ian starts to back Mickey up against the table, and Mickey sort of half-sits on it, an arm reaching back to brace himself.

“Gonna break this fuckin’ table,” Mickey mumbles in Ian’s mouth.

“No, you won’t.” Ian grins and pushes him back further.

“Ian,” Mickey laughs, fighting to sit up straighter. “Come on.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “You wanna move somewhere more comfortable?”

Mickey nods with a grin. He reaches out, pulling at the hem of Ian’s shirt. Then he drops it quickly. And Ian knows why. They still haven’t had sex since that thing in the courthouse bathroom.

“Mick,” Ian says gently, “Take it off.”

Mickey’s hands skim up Ian’s back, beneath his shirt. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Ian breathes.

Mickey gives a little groan and pulls at Ian’s shirt again, easing it over his head and reaching for his own. The shirts fall to the floor as Ian pulls Mickey off the table and toward the bed.

When they hit the mattress, Ian immediately nuzzles into his neck, inhaling deeply. “Fuck, You smell good.”

“Just took a shower,” Mickey mumbles. “It’s just soap.”

Ian shakes his head with a hum. “No, not that. It’s you. Can smell you under it. Love how you smell.”

Mickey laughs, but the laughter fades into a sigh when Ian starts to kiss his neck. Mickey loves getting his neck kissed, and Ian loves to make him feel that good. Feel that good, always.

Mickey grips the sheets with a gasp as his back threatens to bow.

“Touch me,” Ian says into his skin. “Put your arms around me.”

Mickey whimpers as he slides his arms around Ian’s back. Ian can feel his fingertips pressing in, and he kisses Mickey’s neck harder. He moves up and up, finding his cheek, peppering him with small kisses, his hand coming up to hold Mickey’s face.

Ian pulls away. “Need to ask you for something,” he says quietly. “But I think you’ll laugh.”

“Won’t laugh,” Mickey says, already looking dazed.

“I wanna…,” Ian begins. “Not fuck exactly. I wanna go slower. Like, make…” Love. Make love. Just say it. But he can’t quite go that far. It sounds stupid, even in his head. But he means it.

“Oh.” Mickey swallows.

Ian feels silly finishing the sentence, so he doesn’t. “Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so. I don’t know.”

Ian’s fingers slide over Mickey’s face and down to his collarbone. “I wanna take our time. Not go so fast.”

Mickey’s hand slides up Ian’s back and into his hair gently. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Wanna be like that, too.”

“Okay,” Ian whispers, and then he’s kissing Mickey’s chest, sliding over, a soft kiss to his nipple, a circle around it with his hot tongue. Mickey’s breath is shaky. He whispers a yes and Ian flicks his tongue a bit, kissing and caressing, no teeth this time. He kisses his way over to the other and the pattern continues, so gently.

“Soft,” Mickey gasps. “Jesus, it’s so soft.”

Ian kisses every part of his chest, dragging his fingers up and over his shoulder, cupping the joint, caressing the skin, loving every part of him. He pulls him a bit, and then Mickey rolls on top of him.

Mickey’s eyes are wide, his mouth open, his tongue sliding out before he bites his lip.

“I fucking love you,” Ian whispers. He reaches up and carefully slides some of Mickey’s hair back. “I love you so much.”

Mickey smiles, such a pure smile, bliss, and something else. Maybe excitement. He drags his hand slowly up Ian’s body, fingertips sliding through the hair on his chest and staying there. “I fucking love you, too.”

Mickey’s lips slot against Ian’s, and Ian’s arms slide around Mickey’s back, gliding up to his shoulders, feeling the muscles move, the stretch.

When Mickey’s lips find Ian’s neck, he does suck, and Ian lets him, a sharp intake of breath as it deepens. His hands slide down and down Mickey’s back, close to his ass.

Mickey hums into Ian’s neck, a softer kiss, a press of his hips.

“Need to get my jeans off,” Ian says.

Mickey rolls off him a bit. “Can I do it?” His hand slides down Ian’s body slowly, finding the belt.

“Yeah,” Ian breathes.

Mickey kisses him, and it’s full and soft and he deepens it just a little before he leans back and pulls at Ian’s belt one-handed. Ian is always surprised by how deft Mickey is at this. It’s a turn-on. For sure.

Soon there is another groan as the zipper is pulled, and then Mickey is pulling at the waistband, the pads of his fingertips just barely grazing Ian’s hip.

“Fuck,” Ian says, and as Mickey starts to pull at the waistband harder, Ian turns them, Mickey’s back hitting the mattress again. He leans up so Mickey has better access. He watches Mickey dampen his lip as he slides his hands inside, holding onto Ian’s hips with both hands, almost sliding back to cup his ass beneath his jeans, but not quite.

Ian pulls away with a heavy breath, before chuckling and rolling off the bed a little, pulling his jeans off.

“There’s no sexy way to do this,” Ian says, throwing the jeans toward the corner.

“You’re fuckin’ sexy anytime,” Mickey says with a smile. He pulls Ian closer by the wrist.

Ian laughs and falls on top of Mickey again, immediately kissing him, searching his mouth with his tongue. Mickey’s tongue curls around his. God, he could kiss him like this all day.

Mickey’s legs part wider, his knees hugging against Ian’s hips. Fuck. He can feel Mickey hard in his sweatpants. Hard from just kissing and touching. It’s been a while. Mickey is probably as eager for it as Ian is. Yet still wanting this slowness, safety, love.

Ian pulls away from Mickey’s mouth and holds onto his knee. “Turn over. Wanna kiss your back.”

Ian’s hand ghosts over Mickey’s hip as Mickey quickly settles onto his stomach. Ian’s fingers slide up his back slowly and trace softly back down, settling at his sweatpants waistband.

“Take ‘em off,” Mickey breathes.

“I will,” Ian whispers, tracing up and up and up his back again, so slowly. “Just not yet.”

A tiny groan, the smallest lift of his hips. Ian’s hardening dick presses against Mickey’s ass, and he knows Mickey can feel it. Ian gives a little thrust against him, listens to Mickey’s breath catch.

When his lips meet the back of Mickey’s neck, Mickey’s hand comes racing back to hold Ian’s head closer. Ian welcomes it, adding more pressure to his kiss, the feeling of his firm lips pulling at Mickey’s soft skin.

Mickey gasps, and Ian’s sucking increases as Mickey’s hand tightens in his hair.

Ian’s hand glides over Mickey’s shoulder and travels slowly down his arm, his long fingers sliding into Mickey’s. Holding sweetly. Not holding down, just together like that, joined.

At that, Mickey lets go of Ian’s hair, letting his other arm fall. So Ian backs up and slides his other hand down Mickey’s side. Mickey doesn’t jerk or pull away, tickled or sensitive. He just breathes. Ian’s fingers feel the way Mickey’s waistband is slightly pulled down.

But Ian’s fingers don’t travel there. Not yet. He leans back a bit, letting their fingers untangle, and slides his palms up the planes of Mickey’s strong back. The shoulder blades, the thick muscles, the gentle curve of his neck. He deepens the pressure, rubbing around until Mickey’s sighs grow deeper and slower.

Ian is about to ask if it feels good. If he’s doing everything right. But it doesn’t feel like a time for insecurity. He is taking care of Mickey in the way that Mickey takes care of him. The way they take care of each other.

When Ian starts to kiss down his back, he feels Mickey’s hips twitch again. Mickey’s head turns and he’s barely breathing, just open-mouthed and straining. As he moves, Ian’s fingers follow everything he can touch, up and up and then down again, and then his mouth moves lower. Ian leans back and hooks his fingers into the waistband.

“Ah!” Mickey’s ass rises eagerly, up toward Ian’s waiting hand, the hand that slides over him, feeling the weight of a cheek, gripping. Ian’s other hand has started pulling at Mickey’s pants, taking them off, and Mickey is about to speak, probably to hurry him along, but Ian says shhh and before long the pants are on the floor, and Ian is sitting back, staring. Licking his lips.

“Perfect,” Ian says quietly, almost in a whisper.

Mickey whines softly, pushing his ass back a bit. “Oh, fuck, Ian.”

“Can I use my mouth to open you?” Ian’s eyes are zeroed in on Mickey’s ass, especially when he grips his cheeks a bit tighter.

“Yes. Yes you fucking can.” Mickey’s arms bend underneath him so he’s up on his elbows, and Ian’s hands find his hips and pull him up a bit. Mickey looks over his shoulder with his mouth hanging open before biting his lip.

Ian fights the urge to just grab, bury his face in, yank him back, sucking. But this is going to be slower. They can be slower.

Ian pulls Mickey’s cheeks apart. Then a bit harder and Mickey’s head falls forward slightly with a groan.

“Look so good.” Ian’s voice is full of wonder. And then he stretches out his tongue and curls it against Mickey’s tight hole.

“F–fuck,” Mickey whines, and he’s about to push back again when Ian’s face moves closer.

Ian’s tongue caresses Mickey slowly, all around, kissing him, teasing his entrance, over and over, flicking his tongue and circling him until Mickey is babbling, stuttering out words that don’t string together properly. Words that sound like they are being pushed from him. I. Oh. So. Ah. Yeah.

It’s enough of a triumph that Ian’s hands grab at Mickey’s hips and pull him back toward him a little harder. Mickey’s hand rises up to the headboard, grabbing it tight, and he begins to rock back, back, back. Ian’s fingers are so tight, Mickey’s so tight, but both start to loosen as they move. Ian can hardly breathe. He fucking loves it.

“Gonna,” Mickey pants, and the headboard hits the wall. “Oh fuck.” Mickey’s voice drops with a groan.

“Wait,” Ian gasps, pulling away. He flips Mickey over fast. The first thing he sees is Mickey’s flushed face, his bitten lip, his overwhelmed eyes. The second thing Ian sees is Mickey’s dick, steadily leaking the way Ian loves to see. Rock hard.

“You’re so beautiful.” Ian can’t help saying it. Mickey’s lips part, almost a smile. Ian’s fingers slide down Mickey’s chest, circling the nipples again, but not pinching, not rough. He slides his hands down further, down Mickey’s parting thighs. He grips them softly, slowly pushing them wider. Wider still.

“What’re you—”

Ian slides down Mickey’s body, settling between his legs. “I want to go down on you. I’m ready.”

Mickey’s eyes search him. “Ian. You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Ian’s mouth drops open and he breathes hard. “I want to.”

Mickey nods fast. “Okay.”

Ian nods back and looks down. Fuck. His tongue reaches out for Mickey’s thick dick, sliding up it steadily, gathering all the precome and moaning at the taste. His lips wrap around Mickey’s tip and he sucks. Fuck, Mickey’s wet. Ian glances up and Mickey’s hands are sliding into his own hair, mouth open. Ian takes Mickey in deeper, hugging the strength and weight of him, feeling Mickey’s girth stretching his lips and challenging his tongue. But oh god, it’s so good. This is so good. There is no worry. There is no fear. There is this, Mickey in his mouth. Held.

Before long, Mickey is whining, and Ian is moaning around him as he speeds up.

“I need to…oh fuck.” Mickey’s voice is shaking. “Ian. If I come now I can come later too. Promise. Fuck. Can I come?”

Ian nods against him and sinks deeper, and then there Mickey is, groaning out a yeah

Ian feels his eyes roll back and his throat convulse as Mickey’s come fills his mouth. He even whimpers as he swallows and pulls away, sated. Centered. Loved.

Mickey sits up as much as he can and then gently pushes Ian back, his eyes steady on his, mouth open slightly. Hungry. Still hungry.

Ian’s legs shift and he lets Mickey settle on top of him. Mickey’s fingers find Ian’s mouth, his cheek, sliding up to his temple and smoothing his hair back.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Ian whispers. “Loved that. Jesus, your taste. I missed it.”

Mickey’s smile spreads slowly, and his hair is mussed up. Happy. He raises an eyebrow before kissing Ian deeply, tongues sliding and tangling, fingers starting to cup Ian’s head, Mickey putting his weight on Ian completely as they kiss. Ian loves that weight on him. His fingers slide up to grip Mickey’s shoulders before hooking his arms around his neck.

“Love when you taste yourself.” Ian’s voice is rough. “Fuck, it’s so hot.”

Mickey leans down, a tiny huff of a laugh, a kiss against his jaw. Ian starts to turn his head to give him more access, but Mickey stops him.

“Want you right here,” Mickey says, a finger beneath Ian’s chin, pulling him back, and Mickey is kissing him again, deepening it, speeding it up slightly, and when he pulls away, Ian is breathless.

“I want.” It’s all Ian says. He wants.

Mickey pulls away a bit, but Ian’s arms stay hooked around him. “What do you want?” Mickey gestures toward their bodies with his eyes. “You’re fucking hard, can feel that much.”

Ian huffs out a breath at the ceiling, closing his eyes tight and then opening them again. “I really fucking am.”

Mickey bites his lip and then releases. His tongue finds his cheek, and his eyes are heavy.

Ian knows what he wants to do.

Ian breathes out. “Yeah, Mick. Get me wet.”

Mickey leans back and looks down, his mouth dropping open when he sees Ian’s cock. He licks his lips and slides down.

Ian’s heart pounds when he feels Mickey’s breath on him. When Mickey opens his mouth and exhales, Ian almost loses it.

“So hard,” Mickey pants. “God, you’re so fucking hard.”

Mickey’s hand comes up and starts to stroke. It’s good, so good, but it’s not Mickey’s soft mouth, his playful tongue.

But then, Mickey takes him in.

Ian’s mouth opens and a moan falls out. He looks down at Mickey. Mickey’s plush lips wrapped around him, taking him down a little further, far enough that Ian feels his cockhead hit the back of his throat, all while Mickey works the rest of him with his hand. Mickey’s mouth is full of cock and he looks fucking euphoric. It’s so fucking good. It’s almost too good. Ian can feel everything start to stir, start to rise, and he’s just about to tell Mickey to pull off when Mickey does, holding onto Ian’s base tightly.

“I gotcha,” Mickey says quietly, panting. He leans up again and meets Ian’s lips. “You’re okay.”

Ian’s hand sinks into Mickey’s hair and he pulls him closer, tongues tangling, and there’s the unmistakable taste of precome and Mickey and god he needs to get in him.

As if reading his mind, Mickey starts to pull Ian over, encouraging him to switch positions.

“Like you on top.” Mickey’s voice is wrecked. “Love bein’ all covered up by you. Feels so good. Caged in like this.”

Ian looks down at his arms, bracketing Mickey’s head. Mickey’s hand is on his forearm, just holding softly, and Ian’s hips press down, feeling Mickey’s growing hardness.

“You’re so good for me,” Ian whispers. He swallows. “I wanna show you how good you are. I’m ready to, um.” Say it. Just fucking say it “Make love.”

Ian swallows. This is stupid. Mickey is going to laugh. Make fun of him.

But he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, breathless. “Me too.”

“Is that stupid to say?” Ian still feels insecure about it, even though it’s already said and done.

Mickey shakes his head once. His voice is quiet. “Ain’t stupid.” He swallows. “Just different to hear.”

Ian slowly smiles, a flush in his cheeks. Mickey is so warm beneath him, so soft, so hard.

“Wanna feel you inside me,” Mickey whispers. “Deep inside me.”

Ian’s breath comes fast, and he leans back, taking a look at Mickey’s beautiful body. He leans over for the lube, and Mickey’s knees rise up, his feet on the bed, and Ian’s fingers are slick.

“Two right away,” Mickey pleads.

Two fingers. Mickey is eager to be full, eager to start, eager for the burn that comes when it’s like this. So Ian’s fingers push inside him, and he looks down so he can watch them slide in and back.

Ian doesn’t ask if he wants three. He can tell by the way Mickey’s thighs spread. He pulls back and enters with three, and Mickey’s face goes slack.

“Look so good,” Ian whispers. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, eyes closed.

Ian removes his fingers. “Open your eyes.”

Mickey’s eyes blink open.

“Wanna see your face,” Ian says, so softly. “Wanna see every second.”

Ian doesn’t break eye contact as he begins to push inside. Immediate warmth, strong walls hugging him, Mickey’s breath held, then shaking, gasping at the pressure, the slight resistance, then no resistance, and then Ian is fully inside, just where they both want him to be. Connected so tight. Complete.

It’s so gentle. But Ian’s thrusts are solid, letting his length drag back and then fully press in again, in and back, so hard, and Mickey’s breath catches. His eye contact never wavers. Mickey’s hitched-up legs are being pushed back, thighs pressing down, and Ian is pulling back to adjust, and when he slowly slides back in again Mickey moans, biting his lip. He looks straight at Ian, and Ian thrusts only the slightest bit faster, and Mickey’s eyes float shut.

Ian bends to kiss him, kiss him breathlessly, sucking on Mickey’s lip as he starts to pull away.

“Open,” Ian reminds him, leaning back, and then he’s angling right where Mickey wants him to be.

Mickey’s face contorts, a look of near pain, but not pain. Deep pleasure.

“Jesus,” Mickey groans. “Just like that.”

Ian hums and picks up the pace again. His head is spinning and his breath is fast, and he presses that spot inside Mickey, hits it and hits it, and Mickey’s dick is dribbling and wet when Ian reaches for it.

“You gonna come?” Ian pants, but he knows the answer.

Mickey nods fast. “Make me feel so fucking good. Fuck. I—I love you.”

“I love you,” Ian gasps. The heat in Ian’s stomach boils. He tries to swallow back his orgasm. But Mickey is still looking at him, his eyes threatening to fall shut, but he keeps them open, just like Ian asked him to.

Ian pulls Mickey’s dick faster, the slick sound making his jaw drop. Ian glides inside Mickey, pressing and pressing and oh god, oh fuck, Mickey comes hard all over his hand. Ian’s hips stutter, and he pushes deep into Mickey’s sensitive body, holding, holding, the orgasm ripping through him, filling Mickey up, and Mickey’s eyes roll back at the feeling, finally breaking the eye contact.

Mickey’s breath is fast and he’s smiling. Ian leans over him, the come between them sticky and wet, but they smile at each other, looking into each other’s eyes like some sort of romance novel.

This is a story, this is a paragraph, this is a whole fucking book. Ian wants to read it forever.

*

The light is too bright. Ian covers his eyes with the blanket and rolls over, but Mickey’s side of the bed isn’t even warm anymore.

“Hello?” Ian’s voice is quiet and groggy.

Mickey’s voice is bright and Ian can smell coffee. “Rise and fuckin’ shine, Cinderella. You’ve been sleeping the morning away.”

Ian pulls the blanket down. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” Mickey says, and Ian hears the slight worry in his voice. “You okay?”

Ian’s limbs feel heavy.

“I don’t know,” Ian says. And he realizes it’s true. He doesn’t know. It almost seems like he’s starting to sink down into himself.

Mickey flops on the bed next to him. “You hungry?”

“No,” Ian says, and the word feels so heavy in his mouth. “I’m tired.”

Mickey laughs, and it sounds loud. “I gotta go down and deal with the deed to the house today. You comin’? You don’t gotta work, right?”

“Right,” Ian says. “I’m off today.” He rubs at his eyes. “When are you leaving?”

Mickey reaches out and smoothes Ian’s hair back. “When you get outta this fuckin’ bed.”

Ian sighs. “I’m not—I’m just really tired still. Are you okay doing it by yourself? Maybe I’m just wiped out from taking the test.”

Mickey grins. “Or wiped out from last night? That second round take you out?”

Ian manages a weak smile. “Almost,” he says. “God you were so good.”

“Weren’t so bad yourself.” Mickey starts to push off the bed. “Anyways. I gotta get movin’ if I’m gonna work later.”

“Sorry,” Ian says, and he means it.

“S’okay. Shouldn’t take long.” Mickey grabs his keys and phone from the table and pauses when he opens the front door. “I love you.” He still looks a little shy to say it.

Ian sits up. “Love you, too.”

Mickey’s smile is the last thing he sees before he shuts the door.

Ian lies back down and looks up at the ceiling. He sighs. It’s so quiet now. The coffee pot is still on. He should get up, drink some, shut it off before it gets too burnt. But he can’t move. Why is he so tired? Why do his limbs ache so much? Sex? It feels different than that.

He rolls over, reaches for his phone, then sets it down again. He doesn’t care what’s happening on Instagram or whatever the fuck. He’s suddenly so sick of input from the outside world. Just people talk talk talking all the time. On the street, at his work, on the internet. So much talking.

Fuck this. He has to get out of bed.

He groans as he slides his feet out, then sits, then slowly stands. He stretches but it doesn’t seem to help. He pads into the kitchen. Bill meows at him. Did Mickey feed her? He must have. He shakes a little food into her bowl anyway, but she ignores it. She stares at him.

“What?” He’s surprised at how quiet his voice is. He sighs and shakes his head. But when he turns toward the sink he sees them.

Meds.

He reaches for them, pops the caps, and tosses them into his mouth. A quick sip of water and down they go.

That should fix it. They should, right?

Jesus, is he depressed?

Fuck.

It’s not fair.

He can’t be.

He’s taking his fucking meds.

Damn it.

He groans and presses his fingers into his eyes so hard he sees spots when he lets go.

Maybe he can turn this around. Clothes. Get dressed. No. Shower first.

He showers, standing still in the spray for a while, but it does help wake him up. He dresses quickly and is out the door.

When he gets outside he’s hit by the warmth. The sun feels good on his face. He takes a deep breath. In and out. In. Out.

He realizes it’s possible he is blowing this out of proportion. It’s very possible. He’s been living with heightened worry because of the test, and now it’s over. His brain can relax. Maybe that’s what it is

He straightens up a bit as he walks. Just because he feels run down doesn’t mean he’s depressed. He always feels like he has to go to that possibility right away. If he’s tired, maybe it’s an episode. Happy, maybe an episode. Energized? Maybe an episode.

He knows he can’t live this way. But he does. He has to. He has to stay on guard and have insight like Dr. Wyman says. But he’s not going to worry about it anymore today. He’s just going to walk to the train and take it downtown, go into that building, and find Mickey.

The train doors chime as he slides in at the last second. It’s busy. He holds a handle hanging from the ceiling and sets his feet apart to steady himself. He doesn’t have to look around for colors. He can breathe fine. Better, actually, since he’s started to center himself.

He has to switch trains but still gets to the courthouse fairly quickly. He’s about to open the door when he sees Mickey about to walk out.

Ian steps back with a smile, but the smile fades. Mickey looks cranky through the window, and he pushes the door open fast.

“Mick,” Ian says, and Mickey jumps to see him standing there. “What’s wrong?”

Mickey scoffs and pulls out his cigarettes. Lights one.

“I need 98 fucking dollars.” Mickey shakes his head. “How’s that for bullshit?”

Ian pats his back pocket. “I’ve got my bank card. I have 98 dollars.”

Mickey blows the smoke out sharply. “This is my shit, man. I gotta pay for it.”

“It’s a loan,” Ian says. “You’re good for it. Please, let me do this for you.”

Mickey sets his jaw. He doesn’t say anything at first. He looks around, watches the people climbing the courthouse steps, looks out at the street.

Ian is about to plead with him again, but then Mickey speaks.

“Okay.” Mickey’s voice is soft. Almost shy. He takes another drag of the cigarette before throwing it down the stairs. “Won’t be long. I swear. Get paid next week.”

“Don’t worry,” Ian says. “I’m not worried. We’re doing this together, Mick. I’m with you on this.”

Mickey meets his eyes, surprised. “Yeah?”

Ian smiles. “Yeah.”

Mickey smiles back. “Glad you came. You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Ian says confidently. He gestures toward the door with a smile. When they walk in, Mickey bumps Ian’s hand before sliding his fingers between his. The elevator closes behind them, and they rise and rise. The door opens and there’s a line. But they will wait. Be patient, even though he knows it will be tough for Mickey to wait.

Mickey drops Ian’s hand and reaches for a thing on the wall that spits out paper numbers for the next in line. Yeah, it’s gonna be a while. They find one chair and Mickey insists Ian takes it. Mickey starts playing on his phone. Ian tries to do the same, but he’s distracted. Eventually, another chair opens up next to him, and Mickey can finally sit. The women at the counter take turns calling out numbers, people rising up with relieved sighs to take their turn and get what they need.

Ian shuts his phone off, sick of the internet. “Did you ever call that guy I told you about? Sam? I gave you his number but we haven’t—”

Mickey looks at the paper number in his hand and then back up, distracted. “Yeah. Called him.”

Ian squints. He bumps Mickey’s hand but Mickey doesn’t take it. Maybe there are too many people here. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because.”

Ian can feel his annoyance rising. “Mickey, this is serious. Sam could help you. He might be able to buy it. He—”

“Seventy-five thousand,” Mickey says.

Ian’s eyes widen. “What?”

Mickey meets his eyes. “Sam’s gonna give me seventy-five thousand. For the land, basically. He likes that it’s on a corner. ‘S a big lot. We don’t even have to clean the house out. I can just…” he clears his throat, shifts his jaw. “I can just walk the fuck away.”

Ian’s mouth is open.

“And I’ll never have to see any of that bullshit again,” Mickey says, as if he can’t quite believe it. “Like it never existed. Just fuckin’ gone.”

Ian stands up, and before he can stop himself, he pulls Mickey into his arms. It’s still a gamble, being in public, but Mickey melts into it. When Ian pulls away, he reaches for Mickey’s hands, and Mickey holds them tight.

“Gonna take the money,” Mickey says. “Gonna have to call Iggy and Mandy about it. Not like they’ll care. Colin might, but fuck him. Jamie’s in the wind so who knows.” He smiles a little. “Maybe Mandy will even move back here.”

The paper number is pressed between their hands. Mickey drops Ian’s hand and holds the paper up. “This is the last fuckin’ stop, Ian. Get that deed and I can call Sam again, he said. Still gonna have to wait to get the deed for two weeks, a month maybe. But he said he’d wait too.”

Ian smiles, breathes a small huff of a laugh. “You’re really doing it.”

Mickey’s teeth catch his lip and he hums a little. “Gonna walk the fuck away,” he says again.

“Then what?”

A pause. “Keep walkin’ your way,” Mickey says, and there’s the slightest blush. “Keep walkin’ to you if that’s okay.”

“That’s okay,” Ian says softly. Kiss him. He wants to kiss him. But he doesn’t, even though last time they were here, Mickey said he could. He just tightens his grip on Mickey’s hand a little.

Mickey is the one to reach for him, to press his lips against Ian’s. There’s a little excited flip in Ian’s stomach. Mickey can do this to him. Still do this when they kiss, when they touch. He is about to pull Mickey a little closer when they hear the woman’s voice.

“Number 239? 239?”

Mickey breaks away with a smile and turns. “Over here.” He holds the number up. “I’m here.”

*

It’s later in the day. Ian can’t wait too much longer. He has to know.

The computer takes its sweet time starting up. God this laptop is old. He is grateful to have it, but still.

He rubs his face. Mickey is in the kitchen, grabbing another beer.

“Can I have one too?” Ian calls out. “Just this once.”

Mickey laughs when he sets the beer down in front of Ian. “That worried, huh?”

Ian takes a long drink. It’s a comforting taste, even though he hasn’t drunk any alcohol in a while. The computer finally opens up the desktop.

“Hey,” Mickey’s voice is calm. “Look at me.”

Ian tears his eyes away from the screen and looks up at Mickey.

“Proud of you.”

It’s simple. Very soft. It speaks to him, to his fears and wants. He reaches out for Mickey’s hand and squeezes it. He drops it again and takes a deep breath.

He logs into his account. When the page loads it’s right there. A little blue rectangle that says TEST RESULTS.

Click.

His eyes don’t focus at first.

But then.

Holy shit.

It’s there, in large letters. Unmistakable. He’s done. He passed. He can barely react, but Mickey starts clapping, starts saying “fuck yeah!” And Ian is sitting there, staring.

“I did it,” Ian says to the screen. “I really did it.”

Mickey rubs Ian’s shoulders, and then Ian can feel him kiss the top of his head. “You fuckin’ did.”

Ian pulls his eyes away and looks up. Mickey is looking down at him, and Ian can see it there. Pride. Excitement. They are doing this together, just like the house. Just like everything. Just like whatever is happening now, maybe depressed or maybe not. Ian knows he can talk to Mickey. Ian knows he’s not alone. Mickey will hold him, and accept him. Love him. And he will be okay.

“C’mere.” Ian grabs Mickey’s hand and pulls him into his lap. Mickey is smiling and laughing, and it’s so nice to see. Mickey was once so closed up, so defensive, and now he’s loose and happy. Ian remembers himself, so worried and defeated. But here they are, smiling and sighing into a kiss.

Mickey pulls away slowly, one more small kiss before he speaks. “So what now?”

“Anything we want,” Ian says. “Between this and the house, we can do anything.”

Mickey grins. “We really fucking can.”

Chapter Text

The sun will not stop coming in the window. Ian’s limbs are lead. His face doesn’t feel real.

He burrows under the covers. He doesn’t make a sound but can hear Mickey walking around the kitchen, clearing his throat, and doing something with the cabinet door. Getting a glass out, maybe.

Under the covers there are shadows, there is his naked body and there are his fists balled up against his neck. He breathes in and out, trying to just keep breathing, keep focused. But there’s nothing there. An expanse of rubble, of rock, rough in places, unable to comfort him. There’s nowhere to rest in this. All it looks like from the outside is resting, but his brain is fragile and full of something deeper than exhaustion, something wider than sadness.

He was so stupid.

So stupid two days ago, when he couldn’t get out of bed to go with Mickey to get the deed. Ian thought it was just because of the GED test. He thought he would be fine. He even laughed at himself after the shower that morning. Come on, Ian. Not everything is an episode.

This is an episode.

Yesterday at work he felt so uncertain of himself. He wanted to hide. It was hard to talk to people. Talk to them like he’s supposed to, as a bartender, someone’s confidante for a while. But he found himself dragging, his brain a little foggy. Clare wasn’t even there. He was with someone else instead, and it wasn’t the same. His tips weren’t great, the music and the din of the dining room felt too loud, and he was oddly fearful on the way home, the money in his pocket awkward.

Mickey had been working at Patsy’s when he got home, so he was able to pull off his clothes and get into bed right away, barely remembering to take his meds. His skin felt sore. His nakedness felt vulnerable, but his clothes felt uncomfortable. He fell asleep and didn’t hear Mickey come home. But he woke up soon after. 4 a.m. and was stuck in the dark, the quiet. He could hear Mickey’s deep, calming breaths urging him back to sleep.

It wasn’t enough.

He drifted back off just as the sun was coming up. He doesn’t know what time it is now.

But he feels Mickey sit next to him on the bed. The bed dips and Ian rolls back away from it a bit. He hears a glass being set down on the nightstand.

“Got your meds,” Mickey says quietly. “You’ve been sleepin’ a long time so I figured you didn’t have time to take ‘em.”

Ian gives a short grunt. His throat is dry.

“Ian, you okay?”

The blanket is safe. He’s safe under here, alone.

But he isn’t alone. He’s not going to be alone anymore. And he needs to remember that amid the dark drag of his brain. He needs to remember what is good in his life.

He pulls the covers back. Just a little. Just enough. But his face comes out, and he sees Mickey’s worried expression, his wrinkled eyebrows, lips parted.

“No,” Ian says softly. “No, I’m not okay.”

Mickey’s eyes don’t leave him, but his face softens. “Is it…that?”

“Yeah.” Ian swallows. “It’s that. I’m in a depressive episode. I hoped it was just the test, but it’s been more than that, too. I’d been tired. Not doing my running routine, just sort of off, you know?”

Mickey bites his lip. He doesn’t know. Ian forgets this sometimes. How not everyone knows what this feels like. Looks like.

Ian drags an arm out from underneath the blanket and rolls closer to Mickey, finding his hand, squeezing.

“I love you,” Ian says firmly. “And I’m glad we’ve been…how we’ve been. Being depressed doesn’t change how I feel for you, and how I feel when you tell me you love me.”

Mickey gives a short nod, but looks uncomfortable.

“Mick.” Ian slides over more, pulls on his hand until Mickey looks back at him. “I mean it.”

A hand covers Ian’s, and it’s warm and a little rough. It feels just like Mickey, just like all of him.

“I know,” Mickey says softly.

Ian eyes the nightstand. He can see his meds sitting there in a little clump, a glass of water. He sighs.

Mickey follows his gaze. “They gonna help?”

Ian looks back, but Mickey is still staring at the table, jaw slightly clenched.

“I don’t know,” Ian says softly. Because it’s true. He doesn’t know. He knows he needs to call Dr, Wyman, but he knows more than anything he just has to hold on and keep his head above water. Stay out of the dark.

Mickey swallows. Ian can see his Adam’s apple bob with the movement, and when Mickey breathes out, it’s slightly shaky. Sure enough, his eyes look a little wet.

“Please don’t be scared of me,” Ian whispers. “Of this.”

Mickey gives him a soft look. Breathes in and out.

Ian is about to say more, but Mickey bends down and kisses his forehead. He nuzzles against him, and Ian’s eyes are closed and his lips part, breathing out something that sounds like love but it’s not the word, not really.

Ian doesn’t open his eyes when Mickey settles them both down in the bed, reaching for Ian’s other arm, his other hand somewhere under the blanket. Ian slides his hand into Mickey’s, and Mickey’s thumb slides along the back of his hand.

Everything is soft and quiet. The sun is still coming in the window, but Ian realizes it’s already later in the day. He realizes it’s been there all along, watching him sleep, just like Mickey probably has.

“I should take my meds,” Ian says.

Mickey gives a short hum. “How long’s it last?”

Ian breathes in deeply, and lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know. Couple weeks. Maybe less. Maybe more. I don’t know.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“Should I call your family? Your doctor? What do I do?”

“No,” Ian says quickly. “Not my family. They don’t need to know. They get too nosy and won’t leave me alone.”

Mickey squints. “Not even Lip?”

Ian shakes his head. “No. Especially not Lip.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. “What about the doctor?”

“I’ll call her,” Ian says. “But I should give you her number, just in case.”

“In case what?” Mickey’s eyes are wide when Ian sits up to take the meds.

“In case,” Ian pauses to throw his meds in his mouth, wash them down, avoid the next words he knows he has to say. “In case it gets worse. I don’t know, if I get…”

The words trail off and drift into the quiet of the room.

“Okay,” Mickey says quietly. “Yeah, I should have her number.”

Ian takes a deep breath. “What time is it?”

“Afternoon. Maybe 3.”

Ian hums a little affirmative. He reaches out an arm and Mickey slides up against him. They lean back and rest against the headboard.

“I should try and eat something,” Ian says finally. “Should try and get outta bed.”

“All you can really do is try.” Mickey slides his hand against Ian’s chest. It feels good. It’s centering. “And we’ll just hang on and wait it out.”

Ian breathes. “Okay.” His voice is soft and shaky, but it’s clear. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“Come on,” Mickey says, and he swings his legs over the side of the bed to stand. “You want some pancakes? Some eggs? Don’t gotta be breakfast food, but you just woke up, so…”

Ian watches him move, watches him walk into the kitchen, busying himself with a pan.

“That sounds good,” Ian says. He moves slowly, as if he’s in deep sand. He crosses to the dresser, pulls on his sweatpants and tank, and stretches.

His skin hurts. His brain hurts. But Mickey is pulling out the pancake mix and looking for the eggs, and he will try, just like he’s tried before, to be patient.

*

Two weeks. Two weeks in the blankets, two weeks of numbness, of tears and a sore body. Emerging to talk to Mickey, the doctor. Fuck, even Lip, who had some sort of sixth sense about it.

Then another week crawling back to life, climbing out of it all. Piecing things together, continued swallowing of his updated meds, hoping for the best. Eating a little more, laughing a little more, spending more time upright.

And now he’s here, relatively comfortable in himself. Sitting. Smiling, even.

“You look much better than you did last week,” Dr. Wyman says, leaning across the desk and peering at his face with a smile.

Ian tilts his head. “Zoom isn’t always my best feature.”

Dr. Wyman laughs. She has a loud laugh, which Ian really enjoys. “No one looks good on Zoom. I’m glad to see you in person. You look a lot brighter. Feel like you’re on the mend?”

Ian nods. “Still feeling raw around the edges a little. But overall I’m doing a lot better. I’ve been back to work the last couple of days.”

Dr. Wyman reaches over and types on the computer, making a note. “Did you end up having that conversation with them?”

“Yeah.” Ian rubs his hand on his knee. “I mean I could only say I was sick for so long. But Jane and Paul were good about it. I have a feeling someone they know has depression. I didn’t have to explain myself much.”

“That must have felt nice to be understood. Did you disclose that it was because you’re bipolar?”

Ian opens and closes his mouth. Takes a breath and scoots forward. “I didn’t tell them that. It felt like too…much. I feel like people know depression. Like, can understand it. With bipolar you might end up talking with someone who will see you differently or have a bunch of ideas about how it looks. I’m enjoying where I am now, and I don’t want to mess that up. Maybe I will if it happens again, but I don’t really want to now.”

She nods, and types a moment before turning to face him again. “That’s understandable.”

Ian pauses. “Is it okay? That I didn’t tell them?”

“Of course,” Dr. Wyman says, the kindness of her voice so soothing. “Ian, it’s always your choice to disclose to an employer. To anyone, really.” She pauses. “Well, the exception would be a medical team or provider, it’s good to mention, especially for your med list.”

“Yeah, that reminds me of when I had that panic attack. I knew I had to tell the EMT. And I felt safe telling her, even amid everything that was going on.” He sits back a little in his chair and takes a deep breath. He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them.

“What’s wrong?” Dr. Wyman turns all the way away from the screen and leans over the desk again. “You still with me?”

Ian breathes out slowly. “Just thinking about how worried Mickey was. I gave him your number, and I think he wanted to call you a few times. I don’t think he thinks he’s allowed to unless I say so.”

She reaches down and opens a drawer, passing him a form. “Here. We’ll add him to your contact list for someone we can discuss your treatment with. That way we can all communicate if things get to a level where he needs to be involved, or you’d like him to be involved.”

Ian takes a pen from the cup on the desk and starts filling out the form. It feels so real. It feels real that they are together, that Mickey loves him, and that Ian trusts him. Ian scribbles his signature and hands the paper back again.

Her eyes flit over the paper and she sets it down, typing another note. “I’ll get this processed for you today, okay?”

“Okay,” he says. He looks down at his hands.

She pauses before she speaks, letting the air still. “Ian, what’s up?”

“Do you, you know, think this relationship will work out?”

There’s another pause, so Ian raises his head.

Dr. Wyman’s hands are folded. “Why? Are you arguing?”

“No,” Ian says, shaking his head. “No, it’s not like that exactly. But, like, do things work out for us?”

“Us?”

“Bipolar people,” Ian says quietly. “Do they work out? Like, can we, you know—like, can someone be happy with us?”

Her face softens. “Oh, Ian,” she says, a look of…not pity, exactly. But close. “Yes. Yes, bipolar people can have functional and happy relationships. I’m not going to tell you it will be easy all the time. Episodes can be hard on partners, but that’s only because they care and at times can feel helpless. But that’s why it’s important to communicate and get a plan together so both of you can be healthy and supported.”

Ian looks at his hands again and nods fast.

“Ian.”

He looks up.

“You can be happy,” she says, eyes kind. “It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to trust someone and love someone. You deserve it.”

“Sometimes I feel so scared about all this. The bipolar.” Ian sighs. “I kind of forgot I would have to deal with it with someone. I was in a healthy spot. The meds have been good. I’ve been taking them. But it still happened. And I know it can, I know meds aren’t a cure. But for some reason, I didn’t really think about an episode happening. I was in denial about it.”

“It’s a marathon, not a sprint,” she says. “I know it can be frustrating when episodes happen, especially when they interfere so much with day-to-day life like work and relationships. But you can take the lessons from this one and fold them into your plan for next time.”

Ian must have a look on his face. Dr. Wyman takes a breath and almost looks like she’s about to apologize.

“Next time,” Ian repeats, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I mean, because there is going to be a next time. I know. It’s okay.”

“What I mean is,” she says slowly, and kind of straightens up. “When you make your recovery plan, you can look at what worked and what didn’t work this time, and make sure you both feel like you had some support. And maybe look into resources for partners of those with mental health challenges. I have a pamphlet I can give you.”

“Like a support group?” Ian doesn’t know that Mickey would ever go to one. But Ian never thought he’d be going to one either, and now look.

“They have them, yes. But there are also some websites, and I bet some of them have videos or something else accessible and helpful.” She reaches down and opens another drawer. She passes him the pamphlet and he glances at it before folding it up and sliding it into his back pocket. He’ll let Mickey decide if he wants to share it with him.

“The increase is working,” Ian says, because he knows she will ask. “I think it’s working a lot.”

“Good!” She types on the computer again. “So listen, you’ll just have to watch out for signs of hypomania, right? With the antidepressant increase?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I will.”

“Put it on your plan,” she says with a smile.

“Will do,” he says, more confidently. He will work on one with Mickey. Hell, maybe he’ll even buy a new notebook for it. Toss the old one.

“Anything else today?”

“No,” Ian says, smiling back. “I’m good.”

*

Ian is good. Summer goes on. The heat of August can be oppressive, and despite the window air conditioner, it’s stuffy in the apartment.

But it’s kind of sexy, because right now Mickey is sweating, and the smell of him is rising, and Ian can’t get enough of it.

“Turn over,” Ian huffs out, pulling out of him, and Mickey flips onto his hands and knees. Ian thrusts back in and Mickey groans, fingers tightening in the sheet. Ian speeds up, snapping his hips, grunting. His fingers grip Mickey’s ass tighter and tighter.

Mickey moans, arching his back. “Love when you fuck me this hard.”

“Feel so fucking good,” Ian pants. Ian grips Mickey’s cheeks even tighter, enjoying the weight, the way he glides inside him.

“So fucking big,” Mick pants. “Jesus. Fuckin’ stretchin’ me out so good.”

“Want you to come on my fucking cock, Mick. Let me make you come,” Ian growls, pulling him apart further, watching where they are connected. A groan. “So good for me.”

“Yeah,” Mickey’s head falls forward. ”Oh, fuck yeah.” Mickey’s grunts turn breathier, then shuddering out with an oh and loud, thick gasps. Ian’s breath catches as his cock pulses, his come releasing into Mickey’s body.

Ian breathes out a satisfied laugh, one that Mickey returns. Ian pulls out of him easily, turns Mickey back over, and kisses him sweetly.

“Mmm,” Mickey hums. “And here I thought you’d be asleep when I got home.”

“Nuh-uh.” Ian grins and slides off the bed. “I couldn’t wait to see you. You’re worth staying awake for.”

Mickey rolls off the bed too and they head for the bathroom to clean up. He bends over to turn on the shower and Ian enjoys the view, his ass still rosy from where he grabbed at him, pulled him apart, gripped him tight as he fucked him.

“You look good,” Ian says.

“Not bad yourself, tough guy.” Mickey gives him a grin and disappears behind the curtain.

“I’m tired,” Ian says, rubbing the back of his head, feeling how mussed up it is.

“You been workin’ too much this week,” Mickey calls out over the rush of the water. “You probably forgot what I look like.”

Ian bites his lip. “Are you mad?”

Mickey pulls the curtain back a little. “Naw, just noticed. I’m a possessive fuck and don’t like sharing you with a bunch of fuckin’ rich people.”

Ian grins. Possessive. God, he likes that. He gestures with his chin toward the shower curtain. “Can I come in?”

Mickey shifts his jaw and tongues at his cheek. “You fuckin’ better.”

The water isn’t that hot, but it feels good. Refreshing. Ian pulls Mickey to him, and moves in for a kiss. Mickey softly laughs against his lips but kisses him back, slowly tracing lines up Ian’s arms, pulling him a little closer into the water.

“I missed you,” Ian says when they part. He reaches for the soap.

Mickey snatches the soap from him and starts to lather his hands. “Fuckin’ softy.”

“Guilty,” Ian says with a smile. “But so what? You are too.”

“I’m sensitive.” Mickey rolls his eyes a bit.

“Nah,” Ian says. “You’re soft, too.”

Mickey cracks a smile. “Don’t fuckin’ tell anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Mickey passes him the soap, his smile fading. “Dad would have fucking killed me by now seein’ me this soft.”

Ian’s face falls. “I like you this way,”

Mickey doesn’t meet his eyes. He focuses on the shampoo bottle in his hands. “He wouldn’t have.”

“Good thing he’s gone.” Ian sighs. “Because you’re perfect this way.”

“I guess,” Mickey says.

Ian hesitates but decides to say it. “Your mom would have been proud of you.”

Mickey’s eyes snap up. “How do you know?”

Shit. Maybe that was too far. “I just—I don’t know for sure, I guess.”

“Maybe,” Mickey says quietly, so quietly Ian can hardly hear over the water. Mickey’s hands find his hair and the shampoo slides in.

“Mick, I wanna ask you something but I’m not sure you’ll tell me.”

Mickey closes his eyes while he tips his head back and lets the shampoo rinse off. “What.”

Ian takes the shampoo bottle from his hands. “How did she die? Your mom?”

Mickey doesn’t open his eyes. He stays like that in the spray, not saying anything, just moving, turning his head slowly to the side. Not a shake of the head, but he’s not speaking up either.

Ian shampoos his hair and stands there, soap dripping, until Mickey opens his eyes and moves out of the way, letting Ian rinse off.

“She got sick,” Mickey says suddenly. “She got sick and she died. Cancer I guess. She went to the clinic and they did some blood tests and I guess figured some shit out. Sent her somewhere else too, but she was too far gone when she went in. They gave her some oxy for the pain but my dad fucking sold it. She didn’t last long after that. She just stayed in bed for a couple of months. One day I went in with some coffee and Mom was just cold. Dead.”

Ian doesn’t know what to do. What to say. Mickey doesn’t look like he wants to be hugged. He looks impatient, uncomfortable. Ian starts to speak, but Mickey suddenly steps out of the shower, leaving the curtain open a bit.

It’s quiet. Ian rinses his hair quickly and shuts off the water. He opens the curtain the rest of the way, and Mickey still stands there. Ian expected him to be gone, but he’s just there, looking down at the sink. Motionless.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says, reaching for a towel. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

A sniff. Ian can’t see his face with the fogged-up mirror. “S’okay. Woulda known eventually.”

“Still,” Ian says, and he steps a little closer, wrapping the towel around his waist. “I should have waited for you to tell me.”

Mickey turns. Ian expects there to be tears in his eyes, but there aren’t. He just looks tired. “Just can’t forget her face. I laid down next to her. My dad was fuckin’ gone. I didn’t know what to do.”

Ian slowly reaches for Mickey’s hand. Mickey lets him take it. “So what then?”

Mickey leans back against the sink, still holding Ian’s hand. “Jamie came home. We always had a rule growin’ up. No cops. No cops ever. But she was…I mean, we couldn’t fuckin’ move her. So when Jamie called, he just said our mom died and we needed someone to pick her up, Her body. A cop came anyway, but it wasn’t til after the ambulance was already loading her up. But he didn’t ask many questions. By the time she died, she was even smaller than she already was. And he probably thought she was a junkie to look at her like that. Plus, not like they give a shit that some poor Southside lady is fuckin’ dead. So he rolled out pretty fast. I never saw her again. They called from the morgue and asked Dad to come and sign off on cremating her, and he made a big deal about it, but they said he had to come. Couldn’t do it otherwise. So he went, but he told them to throw her ashes in the fucking garbage.”

Ian’s eyes widen.

Mickey nods. “I mean, I know they didn’t do that, but I don’t know what happened to them. Never asked.”

“Jesus,” Ian breathes.

Mickey leans forward, then steps away. He picks at the towel around his waist. “I’m beat. I gotta go to bed.”

“Yeah,” Ian says quietly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

When Mickey leaves, Ian can feel his eyes burn a little. He reaches out and swipes his hand against the mirror. He looks at himself, and he can see Monica. Just a little bit, but it’s there as always. And, of course, he’s the most like her. But that’s the bipolar. He’d never leave Mickey, never leave his kids like she did. Not even if he got really sick.

But Monica isn’t dead.

He doesn’t know how he’d really feel if she was dead.

Ian looks out the bathroom door. Mickey must be in bed. He turned the nightstand light off already. No reading tonight. He pads into the kitchen, a bit of streetlight coming in the window, just enough that he can see his meds and take them quickly, a cupped hand under the water to swallow them down.

Mickey doesn’t move or speak, but Ian knows he’s still awake. He isn’t sure if Mickey wants to be touched, so he rolls over the other way. God, he’s tired too, now that he’s lying down like this. He breathes deeply, closes his eyes.

He feels Mickey press up against his back, reaching around and finding Ian’s hand. Ian isn’t usually the little spoon, but it feels nice. Cozy. He smiles into his pillow, and soon he feels himself floating away somewhere, and he lets himself drift off.

*

It’s called a closing, and it’s the perfect word for it. Closing the door tight, closing the book of what was before. The pain and the violence and the brick and the glass. Closing it all and never going back.

There are so many places to sign. Pages and pages, and little post-it notes pointing to the lines asking for Mickey’s initials.

“It’s a lot, I know,” Sam says. “But it looks more intimidating than it is. I’ll go over everything with you, and we can go as slow as you want.”

Mickey shrugs and plays with the pen. “Wanna just get this over with. The last thing of my fuckin’ Dad’s.”

Sam nods. “No love lost, huh?”

“Don’t know what that means.” Mickey’s voice is curt.

Sam plays with his own pen. “Not a good guy?”

“Fuck no,” Mickey says. He looks down at the stack of papers. “What I gotta do first?”

Sam goes through everything, page by page. Mickey says he doesn’t have to tell him what the pages mean, but the lawyer sitting there says that it’s required to close the deal.

Mickey’s emotionless, scratching his initials onto the lines, turning the pages, pausing as Sam explains what it’s all about. Ian can sense Mickey’s impatience.

Finally, they are finished, and Mickey pushes a key across the table.

Sam picks the key up with a bit of a frown. “This is the only key?”

Mickey shrugs. “All I could find,” he says.

Sam gives him a quizzical look.

“Believe me,” Mickey says. “I’m never going in there again.”

Sam nods, takes a moment to look over the papers. Beside him is a long white envelope.

“Well,” Sam finally says brightly. “I’m so glad this could work out. It’s a great lot. Whoever lives in the new build will love it.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything. Out of the corner of his eye, Ian sees him swallow thickly. Under the table, he puts a hand just above Mickey’s knee.

Sam picks up the envelope. The lawyer signs the last piece of paper and nods. Sam starts to pass it over when he pauses. “Everything you want is out of the house? Once we start gutting there won’t be any opportunity to get anything back.”

“I know,” Mickey says. “I don’t need any of that shit.” He extends his hand, takes the envelope, and pushes his chair back to stand. Ian drops his hand and looks up at him.

“Congratulations.” Sam reaches out for a handshake. Mickey takes it quickly, pumps it up and down twice. “I’m so glad this is mutually beneficial.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says, and pulls at Ian’s shoulder, a signal to get up. “See ya.”

*

Mickey wanted to fuck immediately after returning home. He pushed and pulled Ian around, taking more control than he usually does, and Ian kind of loved it. Ian really likes being the dominant one in bed—something he is realizing more and more—but it was nice to have Mickey take what he wanted from him, riding him into the mattress.

The check is still on the table, pulled out of the envelope, all the numbers right there to see. Ian can see it from the bed as he lies there against the pillow, Mickey panting in his arms.

“What are you gonna do first?”

Mickey breathes out, a little laugh. “Buy some new shoes. Some good ones that won’t skid around on the floor at work.”

Ian pauses. “You’re still gonna work there?”

Micky grunts. “For my probation. Got 2 more months in that shithole. But there’s some talk about me finally getting to be a busser or some shit.”

Ian drags a hand up Mickey’s back, pulling him closer. “That would be nice.”

“Yeah right, something to really be fuckin’ proud of.” He rubs his face with one hand. “But it’s good I guess.”

“Mmm,” Ian hums. He plants a kiss on Mickey’s head. “It is good.”

It’s quiet, and Ian has his eyes closed, almost about to drift off.

“How long’s it gonna take you think? Before they knock it down.”

Ian hums, breathes in, considers. “I don’t know. Probably soon. I mean, they have to try and start the construction soon, right? Summer’s on its way out.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly. “I mean at least get the outside started?”

Ian makes an affirmative noise. “You okay?”

Mickey breathes out heavily. “Yeah. Just wonderin’. Not like I care anyways.” He rolls away a bit, sits up. “Can I read a little bit?”

Ian smiles. “Course you can. I’m gonna sleep though.”

Mickey positions the pillows against the headboard. He opens the graphic novel, some hockey story, and settles in.

Ian closes his eyes again. He can hear Mickey’s soft whisper as he speaks what he reads. It’s so comforting. Almost a lullaby.

“Hey,” Mickey says. “What’s o-b-l-i-g-a-t-o-r-y”

“Obligatory,” Ian says into the pillow.

“Oh. Thanks.”

More whispering. Ian smiles and breathes deeply.

“Hey,” Mickey says again.

Ian fights a groan. Tired. “Yeah?”

“Look at me a sec.”

Ian turns over. Mickey has the book in his lap, hands still holding the pages open.

“What is it?” Ian asks, stifling a yawn.

Mickey shifts his jaw, a little nervous. “Wanna move or somethin’? A new apartment? We could get a couch. A real bedroom. Get Bill one of those cat climbing things.”

Ian’s eyes get a little wider, and he sits up. “Really?”

Mickey shrugs a shoulder. “I mean, yeah. We got the money now.”

Ian’s eyes widen. “But you—I mean, we haven’t even been together a year yet.”

“So? I’m not goin’ anywhere. Are you?”

Ian shakes his head. “Of course not.”

Mickey grins. “Good. So let’s get some more room.”

Ian smiles back. “I don’t even have any furniture other than this.”

“Fuck it,” Mickey says. “We can get some.”

Ian looks around the room. He’s been here a while. The lease is month-to-month, so they could leave at any time. It could happen.

“Okay,” Ian says. He sighs happily, a grin on his face.

“We can take our time,” Mickey says. “Not rush it. Make sure we get a good place over here.”

Something in Ian brightens. He assumed Mickey would want to go back to the South side.

“You wanna stay over here?” Ian’s eyes widen a little more. “The West side?”

Mickey shrugs. “I mean, you work over here. Your group’s over here. Soon I’ll be able to work anywhere. Why not?”

Ian leans over and kisses him. “I like that,” he whispers. “I kinda like it over here. Especially with you.”

It could be the soft light from the lampshade, but Ian is sure Mickey is blushing.

Suddenly Ian is hit by a little flash of nerves. “We’d have to sign a year lease,” he says carefully.

“So?”

Ian thinks of his depressive episode. Mickey was so good to him, helping him through it, taking care of him.

“So…a year is a long time,” Ian says. “Anything could happen to us in a year.”

“Like what.”

Ian swallows. “We could break up or something.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “You’re really thinking that’s gonna happen? Cause I don’t. I’m in this.”

A little flip in his stomach. Ian feels his wide eyes, the softness in his face.

“I’m in this, too.” Ian smiles. ‘I’m with you.”

Mickey grins, shifting his jaw to the side and back. “An’ I’m with you. So let’s fuckin’ do it.”

“Okay,” Ian says, reaching for him, and suddenly he’s not tired anymore.

*

No ice cream today. It’s too cold. The wind is terrible for November. The leaves are all over the street. He can see them from Hannah’s apartment window.

Ian turns and looks to the left. He finds himself staring at a painting, a woman sitting in a dark room, illuminated by a small lamp on a table. She looks a bit haunted, but beautiful. Familiar.

“That’s me,” Hannah says, handing Ian a mug of coffee. “I mean, it was supposed to be me when I painted it. Like, me but not me, you know what I mean? My alter ego.”

Ian’s mouth drops open. “You painted this? It’s beautiful!”

She smiles a little. “Thanks. I’m—I mean I was a painter for a long time. I painted that when I was hypomanic. Painted it in one night. I was thinking about quitting. The sex work, you know. Not life.”

Ian nods. “The painting is hopeful in a way. Like you’re making a decision.”

“It’s true.” She stares at it too. “I really was. It was a very in-between time. I had a lot on my plate.” She looks over, gestures to the couch with her eyes, so they sit. “But it’s all working out, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian says quietly, setting his coffee down on the coffee table. “I’d say it’s workin’ out.”

Hannah puts her hand on his arm, but then removes it fast.

“It’s okay,” Ian says. “You can touch me. We already hug after group and at ice cream, so touch is okay. Promise.”

She smiles and pats his arm again. “I was just going to ask about school. How’s it going?”

“It’s going so good. Really interesting. And the teacher says I’m a natural at my practicals.”

“There you go!” Hannah grins and pats his arm again, which makes Ian laugh. “An A student.”

“I’m trying at least,” Ian says. “I’m just glad I’m able to do this at all. I thought maybe I couldn’t be an EMT with the bipolar and everything.”

“ADA, baby,” Hannah says. “Americans with Disabilities Act. Can’t keep us out.”

“Yeah,” Ian nods, and blows on his hot coffee. “It’s still weird to think about it as a disability sometimes.”

“Sure is.” Hannah stares at the painting. “But it’s our life. It’s the hand we are dealt. We just gotta survive another day and take our meds, right?”

Ian takes a drink and considers her words. “And we deserve to be happy too. I’m learning that. I still can’t believe this is my life.”

“It’s your life,” Hannah says quietly. “It’s a good one.”

Ian looks around the room. There are other paintings too, some lighter, some more colorful. Lots of black and white photographs.

“I should take that painting down,” Hannah says. “That’s the Before time. Know what I mean?”

Ian sets the coffee down and reaches for her hand, squeezing it once. “I know exactly what you mean.”

She pats his hand with her other hand. “I knew you would.” Her eyes open a little bit wider. “How’s Mickey’s new job?”

Ian brightens. “Good! He likes the place. It’s a bar that acts like it’s a dive bar, but it’s really just as expensive and fancy as everywhere else around there.”

“He’s helping out the bartenders?”

Ian nods. “A bar back, yeah. He likes hauling the heavy stuff around, and his personality suits the bar. They like that he’s a little rough around the edges.”

“So do I,” she laughs. “Say hi to him for me.”

Ian grins. “I will.” He looks at the painting. “That really is beautiful.”

She rises and crosses the room, grasping the painting’s frame and easing it down from the wall. “Do you have the car?”

Mickey’s new car. Well, a new very-used car. Still, he bought outright, his only real purchase with all the money he made.

“Yeah,” Ian says slowly, eyeing the painting in her hands.

She looks down at it. “You don’t have to take it, but if you want it, it’s yours. A housewarming present for whenever you end up moving.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Hannah hands Ian the painting. He holds it in his hands, feels the weight of the frame.

“I’d love it,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

“We can set it by the door,” she says, and Ian does. “Now she can live in the After time. I like that for her.”

“I like that for you, too.” Ian hugs her.

“I like that for both of us,” she says into his chest. She pats his back.

*

It sucks to move in February, but because of the time of year, they got a deal they couldn’t pass up. Plus, they had waited to move long enough. But with all the changes, it was nice to ease into the decision on a place.

Ian thought they could handle the moving part themselves, feeling a bit guilty about the time of year. But Mickey told him to quit being such a douchebag and ask for help, snow be damned.

So he did. And now here Ian is, looking out the window and down at the street. Lip is down there struggling with one side of the new couch, yelling something, and Rex is holding the other side steady, starting to back them up onto the curb and toward the building.

Mickey comes into the apartment with a nightstand and huffs out a smile when he sees Ian walking toward him. “Like it?”

“Like it? I love it. I mean, look at the kitchen,” Ian says, waving toward it. “I just put the last box of stuff over there. So much more room to cook dinner together.”

Mickey laughs a little.

“What,” Ian teases. “I cook. We cook. I mean, you cook breakfast.”

“True,” Mickey says. He leans over and pulls Ian closer. “I like to make you breakfast.”

Mickey’s cheeks are rosy and cold from the sharp air outside. Ian can feel the chill as he kisses him. He breaks away just a little, keeping his mouth close. “Wanna warm you up,” he mumbles, voice teasing and low.

“Oh really?” Mickey smiles against Ian’s lips, kisses him a little harder.

“Hey!” Lip is huffing and puffing walking the couch into the apartment. “A little help here?”

“Aw, leave 'em alone,” Rex says, not at all out of breath. “They wanna christen the new place, heh heh.” He gives Ian a look and a raise of the eyebrow.

Ian shakes his head and motions to the left. “This is it, right?”

“This is it,” Lip says, still a little bit of a pant as he sets his side of the couch down by the window. “You get the bed set up?”

Ian looks over his shoulder into the bedroom, seeing the disassembled bedframe lying on the ground. “Not exactly. But there’ll be time for that later.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Nah, you better get that shit set up fast.”

Rex slaps Ian on the back. “See what I mean? Christen the new place.”

Ian rolls his eyes at Rex. “Not everything is about sex.”

“Yeah it is,” Mickey says, and starts picking up part of the bedframe. “Come on, let’s get this figured out. Can let these guys get the U-Haul back.”

“Hey, Rex.” Ian reaches out a hand so Rex can shake it.

But Rex grabs him and pulls him in for a hug. “Come on, man. We’re past handshakes.”

Ian laughs as they break away. “Thanks for your help. And tell your mom thanks again for the food. The pierogies.”

“You’ll see how good they are,” Rex says proudly, “You’ll be talkin’ about ‘em to everyone you meet.”

“Wait,” Ian says, snapping his fingers because he almost forgot. “Did you finish yet?”

“Nah, I still have a solid 50 pages,” Rex says. “You?”

“I re-read it just to make sure I didn’t forget anything. I know it’s not fair that I read it before we decided on it. I just thought you’d like it.”

“Like it? It’s a fucking masterpiece.” Rex swoons, hands together. “I halfway think I’m not finishing because I don’t want it to end. I mean, once I read the Odyssey and was bored outta my mind, but this is—”

“Bored out of your mind?” Ian gasps. “Are you serious?”

Rex holds his hands up. “Okay okay okay okay. My point is that Song of Achilles is in a whole other universe. Listen! Margaret Miller is a fucking genius. Homer has nothing on her.”

“Wait til you read the last line, Rex. You’ll—”

Lip chuckles. “Guys, a two-person book club is not a book club.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey snaps. “How many book clubs have you been in, Phillip?”

“None.” Lip grins. “Hey, I gotta split. Keys?”

“Keys,” Ian says, tossing them.

Lip catches them one-handed. “We’ll see you guys at dinner Sunday, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Ian says with a smile.

“I like our book club,” Rex grumbles, but he’s smiling. He gives a salute and follows Lip out.

“Those jokers,” Mickey says under his breath, closing the door.

“You wanna be in our book club?” Ian smiles at Mickey and swats him on the ass.

“Shut it,” Mickey laughs, giving Ian a shove.

“C’mere.” Ian yanks Mickey to him and nuzzles into his neck. “You smell good.”

“Enough’a that,” Mickey complains, but Ian can hear his breath hitching as he kisses the soft skin. “I’ll tell you what I want. I want ya to get that bedframe put together. We got work to do before you can get on me.”

Mickey pulls away a little, leaving Ian to fight a disappointed groan.

“Come on,” Mickey teases. “Bill’s still in there in that plastic kennel. She’s gonna be mad.”

“Bill, you’re a cockblocker,” Ian sighs, and heads toward the bedroom.

*

Ian wakes up the next morning and for a second doesn’t know where he is. He looks around the room to get his bearings. The door is open a little and Bill is at the end of the bed. Mickey is still sleeping soundly in his arms.

He slowly inhales, smiling. It’s still early. He slowly pulls away from Mickey, and Mickey grunts, but turns over deeper toward the pillow, still asleep.

The room is kind of cold. He pulls some clothes out of a suitcase on the floor. Ian still can’t believe he has a suitcase now. Sure, it’s from the thrift store and the zipper is kind of broken, but it still feels hopeful in its way. Real travel maybe, someday.

He stretches and makes his way out of the room, Bill at his heels, meowing for food.

The kitchen is a mess of boxes. They managed to put some of the dishes away and most of the glasses. They won’t need their old microwave anymore. The apartment has one built-in, and it’s much nicer. The stovetop is clean and the fridge is stainless steel. Fancier than anywhere he’s lived. He looks around the room, wondering if maybe they could paint the walls.

The meds are in a cabinet now, right next to the sink. He opens the door and pulls them all out, laying them down so the names face up. Lamictal. Wellbutrin. Vraylar. Lexapro. Propranolol. Trazodone. Ativan. He stares at them all. His helpers. Since the episode, he’s felt a little lost when he thinks of them. The propranolol is newer, ever since the panic attack on the train. And he’s trying not to feel too bad about the lexapro increase. This is how it goes, Around and around. Shaking a pharmaceutical cocktail shaker until a bunch of pills fall out. He sighs, opens the bottles he needs for the morning, and sticks the rest in the cabinet.

He starts the coffee and putters around, putting on Spotify and adjusting the volume. A larger apartment will take some getting used to. He’s used to being able to just turn a few inches in the kitchen and being able to see Mickey in the bed.

Ian sighs and heads into the living room. He sits on the couch and looks out the window. More snow overnight. A lot of it. No cars down the street. Just silence. Heavy snow. February.

February.

Ian sits up a little straighter. They met a year ago, almost a year ago today.

Mickey comes into the room, rubbing his eyes. “Mornin’.”

“Hey,” Ian says softly. “Sleep ok?”

“Quiet here.” Mickey sits down beside him.

“Snowstorm,” Ian says, gesturing with his chin out the window. “Makes everything quieter.”

Mickey looks out. “Damn. Glad we don’t have to shovel.”

“Glad we took the day off,” Ian says with a smile. “We’ll get everything settled today. Not like we have much.”

Mickey stretches and points. “Did you put the bookshelf over there?”

Ian looks over at the wall. “Yeah. Think it would look good there. What do you think?”

Mickey nods. “Yeah, I think so. Coffee?”

“Coffee. I’ll get it.”

Ian finds the mugs and pours. Some sugar for Mickey, plain black for him.

He hears a noise and Mickey is off the couch, kicking a box of books over to the bookshelf. He rips the top open and starts pulling books out. They don’t have a lot. There will be room left over. But it’s a start.

“Finished the hockey one,” Mickey says, slipping a book into place on the shelf.

“Yeah? How was it?” Ian sets the coffee down beside him.

“Gay,” Mickey says. “I mean, gay hockey players. It was good.”

Ian chuckles. “Gonna read something else gay next?”

“Nah,” Mickey says. “Next is a serial killer. It goes graphic novel, serial killer, graphic novel.”

“What about Guns and Ammo?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. Drinks a sip of coffee. “Nah, fuck Guns and Ammo. I was only pretending to read that shit.”

Ian sits on the floor beside him and starts to sort through his books. He still has a couple of Rex’s to return. He’ll have to do that next time they meet.

It’s quiet except for Ian’s phone playing music in the next room. He can’t really make out the words.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you didn’t come?” Mickey says suddenly. “Like gotten the job there and everything?”

Ian isn’t sure how to answer at first. “I don’t like to think about that. I mean, it changed everything. It changed me.” He swallows, looks over at Mickey.

“Changed me too,” Mickey says quietly. “Changed me a lot.”

“Weird to think it could have never happened if I hadn’t seen that paper at the library.”

“I’m so fuckin’ glad you saw it.”

Ian blinks fast, swallowing again. “Me too.”

Mickey reaches for his hand. “Been a big fucking year.”

Ian looks down at Mickey’s hand in his. He looks up at the spines of the books, all the books lined up, a few turned on their sides so the rest don’t fall over. “It has been. It’s been a very big fucking year.”

MIckey inhales and exhales, traces the back of Ian’s hand with his thumb “Oh. Mandy just texted. Said she’ll come in April once the weather isn’t so bad.”

“That’s good,” Ian says. “I’m looking forward to meeting her finally. Zoom isn’t the same.”

“Yeah. You two are already close,” Mickey says. “Can’t get a word in edgewise.”

“What about your brothers?”

Mickey groans. “Those fuckers. I feel like I have to do everything trying to track them all down. But they’re in. They’re coming.”

“It’s a good idea,” he says quietly. “This thing for your mom.”

Mickey looks down but doesn’t say anything at first. “Yeah. I think it’d be good for us all to talk about some of this shit. Not sure they’ll want to though. We’ll see.”

Ian nods.

Mickey pauses. “Was thinkin’ about June for it. It was her birthday in June.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Thought that might be good. I don’t know. It’d be nice out. Flowers and shit.”

Ian glides his fingers over the tops of Mickey’s knuckles. “That sounds beautiful, Mick.”

Mickey sighs. “Let’s get off the floor since we got that sweet-ass couch. Whaddya wanna do now?” He raises an eyebrow.

Ian laughs as Mickey pulls him up off the floor and pushes him back on the couch. Ian knows where this is going, where it always goes when Mickey looks like this. “Anything you want.”

Mickey stands before him, grinning. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

Mickey climbs into Ian’s lap, his strong thighs finding a home on either side of Ian, a roll of his body, a tease.

“Oh, we’re doin’ this?” Ian laughs. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, his tongue finding the corner of his mouth. A cheeky grin. “We’re doin’ this right now.”

Ian pulls him closer, wrapping Mickey up. Holding him tight.

One year ago, Ian stood in his kitchen holding a piece of paper, stammering into the phone, looking for a job. One year ago, he met Mickey for the first time. Ian felt a pull to him, a familiarity and curiosity. Wonder. There was uncertainty and certainty, the meeting of their careful hands. Such a big fucking feeling. Because it was, and it is, and probably always will be. And Ian holds him, holds and holds him, just like this, just like a story whispered into his ear. I love you. I’m with you. I’m here.