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It’s hot as hell today. Ian will be the first to admit it. Wearing princely regalia—complete with scratchy, snug red pants and a coat covered in gold braiding, not an inch of the fabric the least bit breathable—definitely doesn’t help. But he manages to flash his most glowing smile as parents take picture after picture, as children stare at him and Cinderella—well, his friend Celia dressed up as Cinderella—in complete awe, and tired moms eye him up and down unashamedly.
When the line has finally died down and it’s time for a breather, Ian heads to the nearest employee break room. It’s a good job, working as a character actor at Disney World. He didn’t ever think when he moved here to join his sister Fiona in Florida that this is what he’d be doing. But it’s putting him through school, paying for his training with the fire academy, and it’s easy money. He’s pretty much a natural at playing Prince Charming, if he says so himself.
As soon as he enters the break area, he sees a couple of other employees, or “cast members,” sitting at a table, paying absolutely no attention to his presence, both eating their lunch and scrolling through their phones.
He opens his coat and lets the air conditioning blasting through an overhead vent hopefully dry most of the sweat soaking his undershirt. As he stands directly beneath the cool airflow, contemplating what he might want to get from the vending machine—unable to decide between salty and sweet—he hears the door slam open and whips his head around to see… well, Mickey Mouse.
The guy in the Mickey costume storms in, angrily pulling off the mouse head and tossing it to the floor. He makes a beeline for the vending machines, grumbling to himself, strings of curses with a few other words occasionally thrown in. Ian hears, “fuckin’ bullshit place,” “fuckin’ comedians, makin’ me Mickey Mouse,” “was doin’ just fuckin’ fine as Darth Vader,” “too mean to the kids, fuckin’ bullshit,” and a number of other swear-laden mutterings that he can’t quite make out.
The man fumbles to remove the huge, puffy white gloves from his hands, and once they’re off, he digs into the pocket of his red pants and fishes out a couple of dollar bills. He gets a bottle of water from the beverage machine, and when he feeds one of the bills into the snack machine, the thing immediately spits it back out. “Fuck,” the man mutters under his breath as he attempts to smooth out the dollar bill and tries again. The machine once again rejects it.
And when the man slams his fist against the glass, Ian notices tattooed knuckles that spell out the very word that must’ve spilled from his mouth at least fifty times since entering the break room. Huh. Good thing he has to wear those gloves. But also—that’s hot as fuck.
Ian hasn’t gotten a good look at the man’s face, since he’d stormed past him so quickly, but looking at him from behind, he can see that his hair is black, and soaking wet with sweat. He can’t imagine how torturous it must be to wear that stupid mouse head in this heat. The guy has a shorter build, but Ian can’t really get a good look at the shape of his ass with those stupid bulky red pants he’s wearing. He’d seen the swagger with which he carried himself as he’d stormed into the room though, and it was sexy as hell. Even with the massive shoes.
The man continues to have no luck with the vending machine, which clearly has no intention of accepting his wrinkled dollar bill. “You motherfucker,” the guy practically whines, “I just want a goddamn Snickers bar.”
The other employees in the break room seem astonishingly unfazed by the angry man at the snack machine, so Ian decides he’ll take matters into his own hands. He steps closer, and comes right up beside the dark-haired man.
And now… now, Ian can see his face—at least in profile. He can see the guy’s lips, the slope of his nose, and as he turns to glare at him, snapping, “The fuck you lookin’ at?” Ian can see his stunning blue eyes. And yep, Ian’s done for.
Suddenly, he’s forgotten why he even approached the guy—who’s currently looking him up and down with a mix of disdain and… something else. “Since when is Prince Charming a fuckin’ firecrotch? Shouldn’t you be that fuckin’ mermaid or somethin’, with that flamin’ red hair?”
Ian laughs. “I was supposed to be Peter Pan, ‘cause he has red hair. But they thought I’d be too tall for it. So they decided to make Prince Charming a redhead.” He doesn’t miss the way the other man’s tongue juts out just slightly to wet his bottom lip as he again gives him a once over.
“Yeah. You are pretty tall,” the guy says simply.
Ian clears his throat awkwardly.
“Did you need somethin’ else, or…?” the man trails off as he starts to turn his attention back to the vending machine.
“Oh! Yeah, was gonna see if you wanted to try another dollar bill,” Ian says as he hands over a crisp bill without a hint of a wrinkle.
The man eyes Ian suspiciously and replies, “Thanks,” as he takes it from his hand.
Blessedly, the machine takes it, and the Snickers bar, released from its metal coil, comes tumbling down. The guy reaches in and grabs it, immediately tearing it open and taking a bite. He washes it down with almost the entire bottle of water, which he finishes in practically one gulp, and wipes an errant drop from his bottom lip. Ian salivates at the sight.
He knows he must be really fuckin’ obvious, because the man smirks at him with a raised eyebrow. Like maybe he’s just as curious. “You gonna just stand there and stare, Red?”
“Ian.”
The man’s eyebrows raise even further, this time in question.
“Uh, that’s my name. Ian.”
“Great.” The guy starts to walk away, picking up his mouse head from the floor on the way out. But Ian can’t let him leave just yet.
“Wh-what’s your name?”
The dark-haired man turns back around to face Ian. “Mickey.”
Ian rolls his eyes. ‘Cause, really? “No, your real name. Come on, I told you mine.”
Something like annoyance, with maybe a twinge of anger, flares in the man’s eyes as his face flushes a deep red. “That’s my name, asshole.”
“Y-your name’s actually Mickey?” Ian says, biting back a laugh.
“Yeah. Go ahead, laugh it up, dickhead. Won’t be the first time,” Mickey huffs as he shoves the rest of his Snickers bar into his mouth and starts to head out of the break room.
“Wait. Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just… cute, that’s all. You’re cute.” Ian feels his cheeks heat up, and he’s sure he’s blushing furiously.
Mickey stops in his tracks and turns around to face Ian. There’s a smile playing at the other man’s lips, but he’s still trying to look pissed. And all it does is make him look cuter. “Ain’t fuckin’ cute.”
A grin spreads across Ian’s face. “I beg to differ.”
Mickey sighs. “Ya know, I made a badass Darth Vader over at Hollywood Studios. Didn’t have to be cheerful and shit. Didn’t have to be ‘cute.’” He says the last word with a mockingly high-pitched tone. “Apparently I was bein’ too mean to the kids. Was scarin’ ‘em or some shit.”
“It’s Darth Vader, what did they expect?” Ian asks incredulously.
“Right?! That’s what I fuckin’ said!” Mickey agrees indignantly, before taking on a somber tone once more. “Then I guess they thought it’d be really fuckin’ funny to make me Mickey Mouse. Fuckin’ bullshit.”
“Well, for the record, I bet you were an awesome Darth Vader. But I still stand by what I said. You’re cute,” Ian says quietly, his voice dropping lower, as he steps closer to Mickey.
“Yeah? Not so bad yourself, Red,” Mickey replies, licking his lips again and driving Ian wild.
Ian absently notices that the few people who’d been in the breakroom when he’d first entered are now gone, and a couple of other people have wandered in. And maybe he’s coming up on the end of his fifteen minutes but he can’t be bothered to care.
“Yeah? You diggin’ the princely attire?” Ian teases.
“Dumbass,” Mickey laughs. “Bet you got soccer moms hangin’ all over ya.”
“Yeah, well, they’re barking up the wrong tree,” Ian says, voice dripping with innuendo as he steps closer still.
“That a fact?” Mickey presses, matching Ian’s steps.
“Yep.” They’re now so close to each other that he can feel Mickey’s breath fanning across his face, can smell the peanuts and chocolate mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. Ian wants to do more than smell it; he wants to taste it. “I’m off at 4. Meet at It’s a Small World? We can make out on the ride.”
“Ain’t gonna make out with those fuckin’ puppet kids singing that damn song. I got time right now, though.”
And fine. Ian’s most definitely going to be late getting back from his break, but he doesn’t give a shit. Mickey grabs his wrist and pulls him into one of the employee changing rooms.
*
Seven minutes later, Ian’s hastily buttoning his Prince Charming coat, smoothing out his disheveled hair, and licking the taste of Mickey from his lips as he bolts towards the break room’s exit. Mickey follows close behind, pulling on his white gloves and covering his own kiss-swollen lips and wayward hair with the giant mouse head.
As Mickey strolls past him out the door, he calls back, “See ya around. Check your pocket, Prince Firecrotch.”
Ian reaches in and pulls out a couple of wrinkled dollar bills. Nothing surprising or out of the ordinary. But on one of them, there’s something written in blue ink. He realizes that it must be Mickey’s wrinkled dollar bill, the one that the vending machine wouldn’t take. And when he sees what he’s written, his heart skips a beat.
Mickey (773) 555-4567
Call me
Well, shit. Maybe Ian’s found his own Prince Charming.