Work Text:
Ian does get a job. Mickey isn’t surprised, because who in their right mind wouldn’t want to hire a baby-faced, strait-laced North Sider without a criminal record? You take one look at Ian and just know there’s no chance of him coming to work all coked up or robbing the register and bailing.
He’s hired by this small, independent grill with tacky decor and killer milkshakes, which means that he is a fry cook, funnily enough. There isn’t a hairnet involved, though, which feels like a huge missed opportunity to make jokes. Instead, Ian wears a baseball cap when he’s working the deep fryer. It covers his head of red hair, but a couple of curls always escape, peek out just above his ears.
Mickey knows all this because sometimes, not often enough for it to be weird, but sometimes, he’ll walk over to wait outside for Ian to get off work. A few times Mickey’s even gone inside, ordered a chocolate milkshake and sat in a corner booth until the end of Ian’s shift. When Ian sees him, he smiles so hard his face nearly breaks in two.
“Hi”, he says when he comes over, eyes bright. Even though he knows the answer, he asks, in an exaggerated customer service voice: “What can I get you?”
Ian always covers his milkshake with a shit-ton of whipped cream and personally delivers it to Mickey. Then Mickey watches him wipe down the booths, strong arms stretching the sleeves of his ugly work t-shirt, the hem riding up when he reaches over a table to be thorough. Mickey watches him and pretends he doesn’t and is pretty sure that Ian doesn’t work on this side of the register nearly as much when Mickey isn’t there.
And when Mickey’s crammed into that uncomfortable booth in the corner, watching Ian work, and Ian is smiling and glancing over at him way too often for it to be normal, Mickey tries. He tries to look extra angry, extra scary, look like he doesn’t really want to be there, because there’s always that undercurrent of fear; what if someone sees, what if someone knows? He tries so goddamn fucking hard, but it’s difficult when Ian’s around, for reasons he can’t think about yet.
He’s constantly catching himself wanting to give away shit he swore he’d never ever give away. The more he hangs out with Ian, the more he feels like he’s losing it, quickly enough for it to be terrifying, paralyzing.
When Ian’s shift is over, they take off together, go to their usual spot at the bleachers to have a smoke or find a quiet place in order to get their hands on each other. The grill is far enough from their neighborhood that Mickey can almost relax, and sometimes he dares to take a quick look around and wrap his fingers around Ian’s elbow as they walk, only for a few seconds.
He knows he said he wouldn’t hold Ian’s hand, but it feels awfully close to holding Ian’s hand.
It’s fifteen minutes before Ian’s shift ends, a crisp January afternoon, and Mickey has nothing better to do than occupy the corner booth and drink milkshakes.
Ian had been taking his order in under a minute after he’d come in. “The usual?”, he’d asked, pointlessly, voice mock-polite.
Mickey had nodded, barely able to contain his smile. The fact that Ian just wants to talk to him at every opportunity awakens something warm and squirmy in his belly.
“Coming right up”, Ian had grinned, disappeared into the kitchen.
The restaurant is mostly empty, and Ian seems to be trying to pass the time, idly cleaning the tables and occasionally chatting with the few customers sitting at them.
That’s another thing: Ian seems to actually like talking with people, people he doesn’t know, no less. It’s one of the most nightmarish things Mickey can imagine, listening to some stupid assholes whine about their lives when he’s trying to do his job. Mickey couldn’t fucking do it. He’d sock someone in the face on his first day if he’d have to work at a place like this. The punks who buy coke from him never stick around and try to make conversation.
Ian, though. He’s social, genuinely interested in other people. Sometimes Mickey thinks it has to be bullshit, that Ian always wants to hear about his life, his thoughts, the stupid fucking things he does every day. Who the hell cares about any of that? But Ian asks. He asks and he prods even when Mickey is reluctant, listens carefully to his jagged words.
Who the hell cares about any of that? Mickey sometimes thinks, and then realizes that he knows Ian’s favorite color or remembers a story Ian told him about his little brother a week ago.
So, Ian’s a pretty nice person in general. There’s nothing wrong with that, usually. Except right now.
Now, Mickey’s watching Ian talking to some old dude a few tables away. He can’t see Ian’s face, but his body language is friendly, relaxed. The old guy, on the other hand, Mickey has a clear view of, and he isn’t a fan of what he’s seeing.
Motherfucker.
The fuckhead is eyeing Ian up and down shamelessly, with the most blatantly flirty smirk on his face. When Ian hands him the check, the guy seems to make sure their fingers brush. Mickey nearly fucking gags, because there’s nothing nastier than a goddamn grandpa literally slobbering over someone about forty years younger, and because that particular cock the douchebag’s trying to get access to? Mickey doesn’t want it near any ass that isn’t his own.
He doesn’t like the idea of Ian fucking other people, especially creepy senior citizens who have wrinkly fucking dicks they can’t keep up without Viagra and are so far below Ian’s league it’s ridiculous.
Ian clears the plates off the table and heads to the kitchen. The guy turns around and stares at Ian’s ass like it’s there for his personal entertainment.
Mickey’s fingers tighten around the milkshake glass. He’s entirely too close to getting up and cracking the asshole’s head open on the nearest sharp corner, but he really doesn’t want to get banned from the restaurant. Besides, what would be his excuse for that?
He sits there in his corner booth and grinds his teeth until Ian’s ready to leave. They meet outside on the street and Ian immediately picks up on Mickey’s sour mood.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing”, Mickey grunts and Ian rolls his eyes.
“Mickey. What’s up?”
Mickey looks down at their feet. He doesn’t know how to explain this to Ian, because he doesn’t even know how to explain it to himself.
“Back there. The old fucking perv.”
Ian remains quiet, but Mickey can practically hear him raising his eyebrows.
Mickey takes a deep breath, continues. “Doesn’t that shit bother you? Ninety-year-old dudes hitting on you?”
“Ninety?” Ian laughs.
Mickey isn’t amused.
“Nah, it doesn’t bother me, if they don’t get handsy”, Ian says. “Where’s the harm in letting him think I’m into it? Keep him coming back.”
Mickey’s eyes snap to Ian’s. “You mean he’s there all the time?”
Ian shrugs. “Couple times a week. Don’t think he likes the fries that much.”
Mickey’s fingers curl into fists in his pockets, his jaw clenches. He tries to breathe through the white-hot stab of anger that travels through his entire body. It feels disproportionate. It’s not like he and Ian are- Well.
“You’re not, though?” he asks before he can stop himself.
“Not what?” Ian’s not teasing. He sounds genuinely curious.
And fuck. Mickey wants to know, but he doesn’t want to ask. Putting it into words feels sort of like stripping himself naked, even though that’s not a thing he feels really shy about around Ian.
“You’re not- You’re not into it?”
Ian’s mouth twists into an amused little shape. “I’m not.” Then he winks, smile playful. “Kinda used to be my type, though. Had the biggest crush on my chemistry teacher when I was fifteen.”
That should be the end of the conversation. Ian’s not about to take the grandpa home with him. He’s not interested. But there’s an ugly, nasty part of Mickey that can’t fully believe it. It tells him that while Ian doesn’t want to fuck the guy he saw today, one day another dude – younger and hotter and nicer – will stop by and ask for Ian’s number. Maybe he’ll want to take Ian out on a date, to an expensive restaurant on the North Side. Maybe he’ll want to take Ian home after, into a real bed. He’ll want to do the shit Mickey can’t or won’t do. What the fuck’s gonna keep Ian from saying no?
That should be the end of the conversation. It isn’t.
“Used to be, huh?” Mickey asks.
Ian, oblivious, snickers and jabs him in the shoulder. “Don’t be jealous.”
There’s that flare of anger again. Mickey’s not mad at Ian, except maybe a little bit for knowing what’s bothering him and saying it out loud like it’s nothing. Mostly, he’s mad at everyone else who wants Ian. He’s mad at himself for being mad, for caring so much about this stupid thing.
He should let it go. He should take the teasing and change the subject.
“Fuck off”, he says instead. He’s almost surprised by how sharp it sounds, how hard his jaw is clenched.
Ian’s smile falters. “Whoa. What’s going on?”
“I’m not fucking jealous.”
“Okay”, Ian says slowly. He seems mostly confused by Mickey’s sudden outburst. “You saying you didn’t mind the guy hitting on me?”
“Don’t care”, Mickey tries to keep his face impassive, voice even. “It’s nasty, that’s all.”
“Mick. I’m not interested in him.”
“What the fuck ever. Told you I don’t care. Do what the fuck you want.”
“Do what the fuck I want?” Ian echoes. Now there’s an irritated edge to his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It ain’t a fucking code”, Mickey can’t stop the words coming out of his mouth. He didn’t even realize how mad he was until he started talking. He wants to shut up, run the fuck away, but it’s not happening.
Ian stops walking. He looks incredulous, but there’s anger building beneath the surface. “You wouldn’t care about me being with other people?”
He would. He’d fucking die if Ian was with someone else, and it fucking terrifies him.
“None of my business”, is what comes out of his mouth. “Not like we’re married.”
They’re not hitched, but nothing they’ve said or done has indicated that they’re not exclusive. It’s bullshit, what Mickey’s saying, and he knows it.
“I don’t know what the fuck your problem is right now”, Ian growls. “But-”
“Don’t got a problem, Firecrotch. Just. It’s not a big deal, if you want to.”
Ian’s eyes remain hard but hurt flickers across his face. “Fucking really.”
They stand there on the sidewalk for a long minute, staring at each other in the blue-hued winter afternoon. Ian’s posture is rigid, expression challenging. Mickey’s a shit liar, he knows; Ian sees right the fuck through him, but he’s waiting for Mickey to man up, take it back. Mickey owes it to him to take it back, say what Ian needs him to say instead of lying to his face about what Ian is to him.
Mickey’s throat is all clogged up. He’s a fucking coward and he says nothing.
Ian shakes his head, chuckles. It’s cold and sarcastic and Mickey can barely keep from wincing. “Alright. Glad we got that cleared up.”
Things are tense after that, but neither of them to mention it again. They don’t stop seeing each other, and they definitely don’t stop banging. There’s just a bit less teasing, a bit less talking and casual touching between rounds of sex. Ian’s usual easy warmth is missing, overshadowed by hurt or anger, probably both.
It clearly bothers them both, but Mickey doesn’t know how to bring it up. He doesn’t know what he’d say without losing his temper and making everything worse.
The next time he goes to wait for Ian to get off work, he doesn’t dare to go inside. Ian won’t smile at him like the sun or teasingly ask him what he’d like to order. Mickey stands out on the street across from the restaurant, in the freezing snowfall, smokes and waits.
When Ian exits the building, he’s not alone.
The fucking guy from last time comes through door right behind him. Mickey can’t hear what he’s saying, but he’s got a stupid smirk on his face and he’s hovering way too close to Ian. Ian, for his part, doesn’t seem too engaged in the conversation. Before he gets the chance to cross the street, the guy puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
Mickey throws his cigarette down onto the curb, stomps it with too much force. If the fucker tries anything…
Ian carefully steps out of his reach but keeps smiling politely. The man seems to ask him something, and Ian’s eyebrows shoot up. The exchange continues for a moment, and then Ian is laughing and shaking his head and disengaging himself from the conversation. He heads across the street to where Mickey’s waiting and the guy is left alone, clearly bummed out.
“What was that?” Mickey asks as soon as Ian reaches him. He tries to keep his voice neutral, but the anger is there again, sharp and poisonous.
Ian shoots him an unimpressed look. “What was what?”
Mickey gestures towards the restaurant. “What the fuck was he trying?”
“Asked me out for dinner”, Ian says casually. “Said he could get us a table from some new French restaurant. Then I think he made a not-that-discreet offer to suck my dick.”
“Motherfu-”
Ian grabs his elbow, hard, before Mickey can whip around and bludgeon the scumbag to death.
“Mickey”, he hisses. “Calm the fuck down.”
He tries to take deep breaths, but his insides are boiling. They’re back where they started and Mickey’s doing a terrible job acting like he’s all fucking nonchalant about this.
“I said ‘no’”, Ian continues, voice pointed, chin jutted. “In case you were interested. Which you weren’t, obviously. I always say no.”
Mickey’s stomach feels like lead. “What’s that mean, always?”
“I work at a restaurant, Mickey. Sometimes customers ask for my number.”
And fuck. Isn’t this just all of Mickey’s fears coming true, a horde of dudes showing up and offering Ian blowjobs and dinners in French restaurants. And right now, Mickey isn’t giving him much reason to refuse those offers.
Everything is going to shit. He’s furious, again, so bad that his hands are nearly shaking, and he doesn’t want to take it out on Ian. It’s Mickey’s fault, and he has to do something to fix it.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Mickey swallows, tries to calm down the wild hammering of his heart. Tries to will away the bad taste in his mouth.
“Come on”, he says, grits it from between his teeth.
He nudges Ian, who scowls. He’s probably not in the mood to be bossed around by Mickey. “Where?”
“Let’s go over to my place today.”
It’s clearly not the answer Ian was expecting. It’s definitely not something Mickey ever thought he’d say.
“What?” Ian asks, staring at him. He sounds so taken aback he’s forgotten he’s still pissed off. “What about your dad? Your brothers?”
“Dad’s in jail for a couple of more weeks”, Mickey says, hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s going to puke. “Iggy and Colin usually don’t come home ‘til midnight, so.” He sniffs, runs a hand across his face. “If they see you, we’ll tell ‘em you’re there to buy blow.”
“I-”, Ian blinks in surprise. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do that.”
When they creep through the quiet living room, as nervous as Mickey is, he can’t help but feel a little excited at the prospect of getting to fuck in a real bed. It’s been cold as hell outside, snowing constantly, and warm, private places are few and far between.
No one’s home, so Mickey leads Ian down the hall, jittery with adrenaline. Ian tries to take in their surroundings as they go, not that there’s much to see; everything is dirty and stained and cluttered.
As soon as they’re in his bedroom, Mickey kicks the door shut. He pushes Ian towards the bed until the backs of his knees hit the edge and he falls onto his ass, legs spread out. Ian makes a noise of surprise at the impact. They both still have their coats on, and big snowflakes are falling off of them, wetting the bedsheets, making little puddles on the floor.
Mickey doesn’t give himself time to think, just drops down onto his knees in front of Ian, hands flying to the front of his jeans immediately. He’s never done this, but he’d be lying if he said he’d never imagined it with Ian. And right now, all he can think about are these other guys wanting to get their mouths on Ian’s dick.
Mickey’s breathing hard, everything difficult gradually making way for easy arousal. He keeps his eyes on Ian’s groin, fumbling to get the zipper open.
Ian’s hand on his shoulder stills him. “Hey. Slow down.”
Mickey looks up. Ian’s also a little breathless, face twisted into a confused frown, pink mouth hanging open. Despite everything, the sight makes Mickey’s stomach clench.
“What are you doing?” Ian asks.
“The fuck does it look like?” Mickey growls.
“I mean, why are we here right now?” Ian gestures around the room, at Mickey on the floor. “What’s going on?”
It shouldn’t be that difficult of a question. He wants Ian to stop being angry. He wants Ian to stop being hurt. He wants to make him feel better than some other asshole could even imagine doing.
“I thought you’d want a blowjob”, he says, feels ridiculous having to explain it when his face is already five inches from Ian’s groin.
Ian seems to catch on.
“Mickey, Jesus, that’s not-” he huffs, a sound that’s maybe almost a laugh. “Are you kidding? I don’t want you to try to prove yourself by sucking my dick. I want-”
“I know”, Mickey cuts him off, doesn’t give Ian a chance to say it. What Ian wants probably involves commitment, kisses in public, sex in a real goddamn bed, and right now, Mickey has to give him something. “Fuck. I know. I couldn’t…”
Mickey trails off. His arousal is winding down, and his frantic determination is slipping. He wishes he wasn’t having this conversation on his knees.
Ian looks at him, quiet, waiting.
Say it, say it, say it.
Mickey swallows, fingers flexing on top of his thighs. “I fucked up.”
Ian’s expression is carefully blank. “Yeah, you did.”
“What I said. It was fucking stupid.”
Ian regards him for a moment longer. Then he sighs, a small, frustrated sound, but something in his face softens. “Get the fuck up here. I can’t take you seriously when you’re on the floor.”
Immediately, Mickey stumbles up and Ian leans back, waits for him to climb between his legs. He’s practically in Ian’s lap now, and it should feel stupid, but it doesn’t. It’s like they haven’t been this close in ages, and it’s almost like breathing air again.
Mickey takes Ian’s face into his hands, kisses him, kisses him. Touches his ears, the curls of red hair above them. From this close, Ian smells like fries and hamburger grease, but Mickey doesn’t really mind.
Ian’s fingers curl around the back of Mickey’s neck. He kisses back softly, dips his tongue into Mickey’s mouth, slick and hot, until Mickey’s head feels a little dizzy.
Eventually he pulls back but doesn’t let go. He strokes a hand through Ian’s hair, still wet from the snow. Ian’s a little flushed, a lot beautiful.
Liking hanging out with someone is one thing. Liking having sex is another. This is something entirely different, something Mickey doesn’t dare to name, not out loud. He barely allows it to take up space inside his own head.
“I didn’t mean it”, Mickey whispers, even as his throat feels tight. “I don’t want you to be with anyone else.”
“I know”, Ian says, quiet, serious. “You’re a horrible liar. It was still shitty.”
“Yeah. I’m… Told you I’d suck at this. Punch me in the face next time I say shit like that.”
Ian’s lips pull into a slow smile. “It’s you, alright? I’m into you. No need to be worried.”
Mickey blows out a breath. “I know you want to, like, go out on dates and shit-”
“I told you”, Ian interrupts. “I don’t care. This works for me.”
“You don’t care about all the fancy restaurants you’re missing out on?”
Ian shakes his head. “I don’t think I like French food.” His smile turns teasing, and he cups Mickey’s ass playfully. “And I think this date is turning out pretty well.”
“Yeah?” Mickey can’t hold back his own smile. He grinds back against Ian’s hands, liking the way they seem to fit together so well. “This is what you’re into? Never would’ve guessed, Gallagher.”
Ian giggles, and it makes his eyes sparkle. There isn’t enough air in Mickey’s lungs, and he has to wrap his arms around Ian’s neck, lift himself up a little higher on his knees to get closer until their lips are almost touching again.
“You know”, Ian’s voice is low. He runs his palms up and down the backs of Mickey’s thighs. “If you still wanna blow me, I won’t put up a fight.”
Ian’s hot breath on his cheek, big hands on his ass, all of it is making his body come back to life. Mickey quirks a brow. “Oh, really?”
“Mm-hm. Compensation for assholery?”
Mickey pinches his nipple through his sweater. Ian jolts, laughs. “Ow, fuck. I’m gonna need a lot of compensation.”
Mickey smirks as he slides back down, out of Ian’s lap and onto the floor. It’s strange, unfamiliar, but there’s something weirdly thrilling about being between Ian’s legs, about Ian’s knees bumping against his shoulders, enveloping him.
They both finally shrug their coats off, and Ian lets his sweater follow, tossing it onto the bed behind him. There’s a stab of nervousness that follows the thought of getting naked with another boy in this house, but Mickey squashes it down by pressing his face against Ian’s bare, warm stomach. He sort of just wants to get down to business, but there’s something incredibly rewarding in the way Ian shivers at the touch, abs flexing under Mickey’s lips.
Mickey’s not completely sure what to do with his hands, but he needs to feel Ian’s solid shape under them, so he grabs onto a jean-clad thigh with one, places the other over Ian’s hipbone to pull him closer, keep him there. When Mickey runs his tongue across Ian’s skin, Ian’s hand flies into his hair.
“Ah, fuck”, he gasps, tugs sharply as Mickey sucks little kisses onto his stomach.
Ian’s jeans are halfway opened, and Mickey pulls away to undo the zipper. Ian lifts his hips just enough to get the jeans and the boxers underneath out of the way.
Ian’s already a little hard, and Mickey mouth damn near waters at the sight. He fucking loves Ian’s cock, loves the way it feels heavy in his hand, the way it curves slightly to the left. Loves the wiry red curls at the base, especially loves the way it fills his ass.
He’s about to see if he loves having it in his mouth, though he already has a suspicion.
Mickey lets go of Ian’s thigh, licks a broad stripe across his palm, deliberately locking eyes with Ian while doing so. Ian stares down at him, chest heaving, cheeks flushed, in apparent awe of what’s happening.
“Jesus, Mick.”
Grinning, Mickey takes Ian’s cock in his hand, strokes it firmly. Runs his thumb over the head because Ian’s so sensitive there; it makes him moan out loud, legs squeezing Mickey’s shoulders.
It takes no time at all to get Ian to full hardness, and Mickey’s willing to admit, at least to himself, that it makes him a little proud. His own pants are starting to feel tight, as well.
Mickey pauses, blows out a breath. He knows he thinks it’s hot as fuck to watch when Ian’s sucking his dick, and Ian probably feels the same way about him. Despite that, he feels a bit embarrassed, keeping eye contact with Ian as he leans down to tentatively run his tongue over the hard length.
Ian watches, eyes wide, hand tightening in Mickey’s hair. He doesn’t pull, he doesn’t push, even though Mickey can tell he wants to.
Mickey half-expects to be ashamed, to feel like a bitch down on his knees for some other dude. Fucking stupid, since he’s already taking it in the ass regularly from the same dude, but there isn’t always logic in what makes Mickey feel what.
It never comes. He’s feeling a whole lot of different shit, but none of it’s making him want to stop.
Ian tastes like skin, a little salty, a little something distinctly Ian. Mickey definitely doesn’t hate it. He moves upwards, presses his tongue flat against the cockhead, licks it tightly, dips into the slit.
Ian’s hips jerk like he can’t control himself. His sucks in a few ragged breaths, bites down on his lower lip. So fucking sensitive.
Mickey pulls away. “You ready to blow your load already?”
“Fuck you”, Ian’s laugh is shaky. “It’s unfair. You look really fucking hot.”
Mickey’s neck burns pleasantly. “Then stop looking at me.”
Ian tugs his hair playfully. “Fuck no.”
Grinning, Mickey gets back to work.
He licks off the pre-cum gathering at the tip, jerks Ian off lazily. The texture feels nice on his lips, his tongue, different than it does in his palm. Mickey almost wants to try how Ian’s cock would feel rubbing against his cheek, hot and heavy and slick with saliva. Maybe he’d even let Ian come on his face. The thought sends a jolt down Mickey’s spine.
“Come on, come on”, Ian is murmuring. “Mickey, come on.”
Mickey squeezes Ian’s hip reassuringly. Then, he fits his lips just over the head of Ian’s dick, sucks testily, slides down a bit, then up until it pops out of his mouth with a wet sound. It shouldn’t feel that nice, since he’s getting no direct sexual pleasure out of it, but fuck. Mickey might be into this.
He does it again, tries to relax, go deeper. Ian’s thighs are already shaking, stomach taut, and he’s making these breathy sounds that go straight to Mickey’s own cock.
Ian’s goddamn big, not that it’s something to complain about, at least usually, but Mickey can’t get as far down as he’d like. It’s difficult enough to cover his teeth, try to breathe through his nose, and he has to go slow, slow.
When he feels the length hit the back of his throat, he gags, has to pull off a little. It makes Mickey’s eyes water, spit flood his mouth. Stubbornly, he swallows around it. It makes an obscene slurping sound, and judging by Ian’s reaction, by the low grunt and the twitch of his hips, it feels pretty amazing.
“Use your hand, too”, Ian tells him. “You don’t gotta take all of it.”
Mickey kind of wants to but knows that he can’t. Not yet, at least.
Ignoring the way his knees are starting to ache, thighs burn, he takes Ian deeper again, carefully, hollows his cheeks lightly when he sucks. He tries to get a rhythm going, twisting his wrist at the same pace he’s using his mouth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck”, Ian chants, voice strained. “Mickey, fuck, making me feel so good. Your fucking mouth, that’s perfect.”
The knowledge that Ian’s feeling good, that Mickey’s doing it, pushing him closer and closer to the edge, making him lose it like that, has Mickey moaning around Ian’s cock. He moves his hand from Ian’s hip to his own groin, palms himself through the layers of fabric. Jesus, if he comes in his pants like some fourteen-year-old before Ian even finishes, he’ll be fucking mortified.
He’s worried for nothing, it seems, because it can’t be more than three minutes until Ian gasps “gonna come” and then he’s doing just that. Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, tries to focus on swallowing, stroking Ian’s dick through it. He doesn’t love the taste, but whatever. Maybe Ian thinks it’s hot or something, to come down his throat.
Ian’s still spitting out curses, shallowly fucking into Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey doesn’t pull off until he’s sure there’s nothing left.
“Jesus”, Ian pants, leans forward. His dick thumps wetly against the leg of his jeans.
Mickey licks the side of his mouth. He’s still hard as a rock, his thighs are aching, his jaw is kind of sore, but none of that feels particularly important. Mostly, he feels really fucking proud.
“You think grandpa back there would’ve made you come harder?”
Ian snorts, tucks his softening dick back into his boxers. “Get back up here, you asshole.”
Mickey stands up, tries not to wince as he stretches his legs. He pushes Ian down onto his back, crawls on top of him, unable to wipe the smug grin off his face.
“No, I’m serious”, he says, breath hitching a bit when Ian’s hand immediately finds the bulge in his jeans. “Can you imagine how that feels when he takes the dentures out?”
Ian makes a face of utter disgust. “I don’t want to imagine that, Jesus. What is wrong with you?”
And it feels so good, so normal, that Mickey can’t help but laugh, lean down to suck on Ian’s lower lip when Ian works his jeans open. The laugh turns into a moan when Ian gets his boxers out of the way, tugs roughly on Mickey’s cock. His other hand goes to the back of Mickey’s neck to pull him down into a kiss.
“Felt fucking amazing”, Ian murmurs against his mouth, kisses him hard but sweet, in a way that feels like a thank you. Mickey wonders if Ian can taste himself on his tongue. “Wanna do that again, wanna come in your mouth again.”
“Yeah, yeah”, Mickey gasps, pressing sloppy kisses onto Ian’s lips, fucking wildly into Ian’s fist. “Ian, shit, I’m so fucking close.”
Ian picks up the pace, hand warm and slick and perfect. With a full-body shiver, Mickey comes onto Ian’s bare stomach, across his abs. Ian just squeezes Mickey’s neck tighter, keeps him close.
When Mickey’s heart stops beating so hard, he rolls off Ian, flops onto his back beside him. They breathe together in the quiet of the house, and it’s so goddamn weird to feel so good, so relaxed and unworried inside this room.
It’s Ian who breaks the silence. “Good?”
Mickey turns to face him. He’s still flushed with pleasure, lips turned into a small smile. Mickey knows it means are we good, are we on the same page right now, are you going to be an asshole about this in the future?
Mickey doesn’t know what promises he can make, but he wants to try, so he reaches over, touches Ian’s cheek with his knuckles.
“Yeah, good.”
Mickey ends up sitting in that corner booth again, drinking his milkshake and watching Ian work. Ian smiles and teases him like he did before, and they leave together when Ian’s shift ends.
When he’s not there, he feels at ease. He doesn’t trust most people, but he trusts Ian, and he’s learning to believe Ian when he says that it’s enough, what they’ve got together. It’s good. They’re good.
“Hey, you know who I haven’t seen in ages?” Ian asks a couple of weeks later.
Mickey grunts, shrugs.
“That one customer you freaked out about. That wanted to suck my dick. It’s been, like, two weeks since any of us last saw him.”
“That’s weird”, Mickey says. “Probably couldn’t handle getting rejected.”
“Yeah, maybe”, Ian agrees, and the subject is forgotten.
Mickey doesn’t know where the guy is, and he doesn’t really care. What Mickey does know is that he isn’t anywhere near Ian, not after the short but thorough talk Iggy and Colin had with him. Probably didn’t even have to break any of his ribs; he’s definitely the type that shits his pants after one threat. One customer more, one customer less, who the fuck is counting?