Work Text:
I.
Ian wakes up and freezes. There’s an arm around his waist—more importantly, there’s a body pressed against his back, and Ian is acutely aware of the fact that they’re both naked. His head is pounding, too. When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t recognize the room he’s in. It’s definitely not his dorm room, so that begs the question: where the fuck is he?
Ian slips out of the bed, trying not to disturb the person behind him. When he gets out, he pulls on some boxers closest to him—there are clothes scattered everywhere—and then when he turns around and sees the person behind him, he can only stare. What the fuck? Why is he in bed with him?
Then it’s a frantic search to find his phone. He recognizes his jeans, but the phone he pulls out is different. Ian shakes his head and calls Lip, moving into the other room.
“Ian?” Lip asks. His voice is slurred by sleep and drink, which is what Ian guesses is making his head pound right now.
“Lip, I’m in deep shit,” Ian whispers. He looks in through the doorway, but the figure is still sleeping.
“What’s wrong?” Lip asks, sounding slightly more alert. There’s a voice in the background, and Ian guesses there’s a person in bed with him.
“I slept with Mickey Milkovich last night,” Ian whispers.
“So?”
“So—” Ian stares at his phone for a second. “I slept with Mandy’s fucking brother.”
“Ian, what do you want me to say? Congratulations? You’ve been dating Mickey for almost a year,” Lip says, sounding confused as fuck. Ian blinks. That can’t be right. Ian’s only seen Mickey in pictures with Mandy. He’s never even met the fucking guy. How can he be dating him?
“A year?” Ian repeats. “Dating?”
“Dude, are you okay?” Lip asks. “You did drink a lot last night. You always drink a lot on New Years.” Is that the date then? Ian wonders. And it explains his pounding head. Ian moves his phone away from his ear for a moment and then stares at it in shock. The date says January 1st. Of 20-fucking-17. Shit. Shit. Ian looks around him. How can it be fucking 2017? Yesterday was fucking 2015. October of fucking 2015.
“Lip, I don’t remember anything,” Ian confesses. He doesn’t remember last night, he doesn’t remember Mickey Milkovich, he doesn’t remember last fucking year.
“Well, that’s vodka for you,” Lip says, giving a small laugh. “Look, I’m about as hungover as you, so I’m going back to sleep. Hope you feel . . . better.” Lip hangs up before Ian can talk, and Ian groans in frustration. He can feel panic start to take over. It’s somehow 2017 and he’s dating Mickey Milkovich and he doesn’t remember shit. Ian needs to fucking breathe.
When he walks back into the bedroom, Mickey is sitting up in bed. Ian freezes all over again when Mickey’s eyes find him. “Hey,” Mickey says, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He has tattoos on them, and Ian would find them funny if he wasn’t freaked the fuck out. Mickey’s voice is even groggier than Lip’s was.
“Um,” Ian says. And then, “Hey,” because he has no idea how to respond.
“Fuck,” Mickey says, blinking his eyes at the light a little. “I’m so fucking hungover.” He stretches his back. “I think this calls for coffee. And fucking pills.” Ian continues to stare at him. “You up for that?”
“Pills?” Ian repeats.
Mickey gives him an exasperated look, rising to his feet. Mickey is definitely attractive, Ian can say, but—this is not the point. “You drank more than me, so I’m assuming you may even have a worse headache than I do.” He pulls on some clothes too and walks over to Ian. Ian can actually feel his heart seize when Mickey comes closer. When they’re almost chest to chest, Mickey frowns at him. “Hey, you okay?” he says softly. Ian forces himself to smile and nod, and Mickey takes Ian’s chin and tilts his head down for a rather sweet kiss. “You’re acting funny,” Mickey says when they pull apart.
“You’re right,” Ian says, “I have a really bad headache.”
Mickey rolls his eyes, fingertips still holding Ian’s chin. “Kitchen. I’ll get coffee.”
As Mickey starts making some breakfast, Ian looks around the apartment. It’s pretty obvious that it’s at the university, one of the off-campus buildings, and Ian remembers that Mickey’s supposed to be a year older than Mandy and Ian. It looks pretty used, furniture looking second hand but still nice (what does Ian really expect since they’re college students?) and Ian can even see pictures of himself with Mickey and Mandy on a side table. Christ.
“Happy New Year,” Mickey says when he puts the coffee and aspirin down on the table by Ian’s hand.
Ian gives him a grateful smile and swallows the pill back. Mickey continues to putter around the kitchen until he hears his phone ring in the other room and goes to answer it. Ian pinches himself really hard on the arm, and when that doesn’t work, the inside of his thigh. It doesn’t work, because Ian’s still here. But this can’t be real. Right? Ian needs to wake the fuck up.
When Mickey comes back in the room, he’s completely dressed. “I have to go meet with my econ group right now,” Mickey says, running a hand through his hair. “Who in their right fucking mind thought meeting the day after New Years was a good idea, I don’t fucking know.” He grabs some of the toast and eats it as he gathers his bag and materials. Ian watches him with a strange fascination of someone who doesn’t have anything else to do.
Before Mickey leaves, he gives Ian another kiss. When he pulls back, he runs a hand through Ian’s hair, fond. “Get some more sleep, yeah?” Mickey says. “You’re out of it this morning.” Ian nods and then Mickey’s leaving.
Ian stares around the apartment. Fuck.
He goes back into the bedroom and looks into the bathroom. Two toothbrushes, and when he looks through the drawers, there are differences in the sizes of clothes. Ian can see his schoolwork at the desk and in the living room. That means Ian definitely lives here. Fuck. Now where does he go from that?
Ian walks into the kitchen and finishes off the toast and coffee Mickey made before taking his advice. Maybe if he went to sleep, he’d wake up in fucking reality. The warmth in the bed is almost gone completely, and it smells faintly of sex, but it’s familiar, almost comforting. Which is should not be, Ian thinks. Fuck.
He closes his eyes and hopes that he wakes up in the real world.
II.
He doesn’t wake up with an arm around his waist.
He wakes up with his arm around someone’s waist. Ian groans and then leans up on one elbow, looking around the room. His stomach drops. It’s the same fucking room, and god, that’s Mickey in his bed. Ian looks over at the clock. It’s almost eleven in the morning, which is past what the time was earlier, but if his body’s sluggishness tells him anything, it’s been longer than an hour or two.
Ian gets out of bed and looks for his phone. It’s not on the bedside table where he’d left it, but in his jeans again on the floor. Ian’s getting a sinking feeling in his stomach, and it’s confirmed when he looks at the date: January 1st, 2017. Ian looks around. He’s naked again, no clothes on. He didn’t take his clothes off, but neither did Mickey. At least, he’s pretty sure Mickey didn’t.
Ian phones through his contacts and calls Lip again.
“Hello?” Lip’s voice sounds annoyed. “Fuck, it’s early.”
“Lip,” Ian says, “something really weird is going on.”
“Oh, god, what?”
Ian can’t even begin to describe this. Is it the same day as when he went to sleep? “Did I call you earlier?” Ian asks.
“If I didn’t answer then only you would know—”
“No, I mean, you answered. I called you, and you answered, and we talked about how I fucked Mickey.” Ian glances at Mickey. Mickey has an arm curled under a pillow, and his face is slack. He looks peaceful, and kinda beautiful. Ian jolts, focusing back on Lip.
“Ian, I don’t remember this,” Lip says, confused, “and it sounds like something I don’t even want to remember. Did you call me last night?”
“No, it was this morning.”
“What? I just woke up.”
Ian knows, then. “Never mind then. Bye, Lip.” He hangs up and stares at Mickey again. Okay. So he’s repeating the same day as yesterday. Which also happens to be a day that for him—the real, actual him—is over a year in the future. It makes perfect sense except for how the fuck did that happen.
He drops his phone down on the bedside table, which startles Mickey awake. He groans, putting his arm over his eyes. “Sorry,” Ian whispers, and Mickey waves his hand in the air like it doesn’t matter. Ian walks over to the dresser and starts shifting through drawers for something clean to wear.
“Getting dressed?” Mickey asks from the bed. Ian tells him that he is, glancing behind him and then freezing when he sees Mickey staring at him, head tilted. “I can think of something better to do,” Mickey says, mouth forming a smirk, “and it doesn’t require any clothes.” Something jolts low in Ian’s gut. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
Ian quickly tries to form a reason why they can’t fuck. “Don’t you have a meeting with your econ group?” he blurts out, and then curses himself. Mickey raises his eyebrows. “I saw a text on your phone,” Ian adds. Is he allowed to look at Mickey’s phone? They’ve been dating for a year apparently. They should be on that level.
Mickey groans. “There goes staying in all day. Fuck.” He gets up and Ian, for a terrifying moment, thinks he’s walking to Ian. But he walks past and goes into the bathroom. Ian can hear the shower start, and he lets out a long breath. Mickey appears in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” he asks, and his voice is so fucking seductive. Ian eyes him for a moment, glances over his naked body, and swallows hard. Mickey’s fucking attractive, and he’s in shape, and Ian is so, so tempted. He holds back though, because he isn’t sure that joining him is a smart idea. It feels weird, like he’s fucking someone else’s boyfriend. Even though Mickey is technically his boyfriend. God fucking damn it.
“I don’t think you want me to,” Ian says, smiling at him softly. “I’m so hungover I’m sure I’m only going to slip and give you a black eye.”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, and then closes the door behind him when he goes back into the bathroom. Ian feels embarrassed for a second, and then gets confused, because he’s embarrassed over a moment he doesn’t remember happening.
Ian is making breakfast in the kitchen when Mickey comes out of the shower, dressed in clean clothes. He’s glancing at his phone, and he hasn’t said anything, so Ian is guessing that the econ thing is still a thing. Thank god.
Mickey comes up behind him to reach for a glass (something that had taken ages for Ian to figure out: where things were in the cupboards), and he brushes up against Ian's back. Mickey smells clean, soap something spicy, and Ian wants to press his face into Mickey’s neck. It’s a weird feeling, and Ian shakes his head, trying to get it out of him. This—this isn’t real.
Mickey kisses him again when he leaves, mouth lingering on Ian’s for a moment. There’s an expression in his eyes that Ian can’t read, and it makes something in Ian’s chest expand. Before Ian can ask Mickey about it, though, Mickey is saying goodbye and is out the door.
-
Ian decides not to go back to sleep. The last time that had happened, he’d woken up here again, so he fucks around the apartment, unsure of anywhere else to go. He watches TV for hours, alternating between shows and movies, and there are some movies and shows on the TV that Ian knows hasn’t aired yet. It’s so fucking strange. After that, he becomes too antsy, so he starts pacing through the room. It’s only about three in the afternoon. He needs to kill time.
Mickey comes back around 5:30, complaining about people in his group. They start to cook dinner together, and Ian can’t get over the domesticity, reminding himself, Dating a year, dating a year, dating a year. They talk about Mickey’s group the entire night, and Ian is proud that he’s managed to avoid any other type of conversation, before watching TV. Ian forces himself to relax against Mickey’s chest, telling himself: Dating a year, dating a year, dating a year. People who have been dating for a year are fine with cuddling their boyfriend. Ian is fine. He’s fine.
When they finally go to bed, Ian pretends to fall asleep, arm wrapped around Mickey’s waist again. When Mickey falls asleep—Ian’s not sure how he knew the moment Mickey did—Ian sits up against the headboard, watching the clock. He’s not going to fall asleep.
It’s a strange thing, though. When the clock hits 12:00, it’s like he falls asleep immediately.
III.
Ian wakes up with his face pressed into Mickey’s neck. Mickey has an arm around Ian’s waist, his hand resting on the small of Ian’s back, and Ian’s legs are tangled with Mickey’s. He’s comfortable as fuck, and even warmer, so he just presses his face back into the curve of Mickey’s neck and falls back asleep.
Ian is only half-awake when Mickey gets out of bed, and Mickey’s, “Go back to sleep,” sounds very distant, as does the lingering touch to Ian’s neck. Ian wakes up around twelve, and Mickey is gone. Ian touches the indent in the pillow from Mickey’s head, feeling some strange sense of regret. There’s a part of him in this moment that misses Mickey, and there’s a part of him that regrets that this isn’t fucking real. He gets up and checks the phone. January 1st.
Ian sits back on the bed, considering. He has to be living this day for a reason, right? Otherwise, why would it keep repeating? He looks down at his phone, looking at Lip in his contacts. He doesn’t want to call Lip, though. But then he sees that he has three missed calls from Mandy and calls her back.
-
It takes him a little longer than he expected to find the cafe she’s talking about, but it’s on campus. Ian wishes that he remembered something about this life, because then he’d remember where shit is.
Mandy is sitting in the back of the cafe, called Rita’s, and smiles when she sees him. She looks way better than how Ian felt this morning, hair pulled back in a French braid and two coffees already sitting in front of her. It’s weird for Ian: he and Mandy have been best friends since their first week of college, and it’s weird to see her almost two years into the future. She doesn’t look too different, but her hair is lighter, more brown than black, and she has a different air of maturity around her.
“I have your favorite,” she says when Ian sits down, pushing the coffee in front of him. He takes a sip, and it’s good, he guesses, but apparently it’s his favorite in the future. “I figured you could use it,” Mandy continues. “You drank a lot last night.”
Ian grimaces. “I know. I have the headache to account for it.” Never mind that he doesn’t remember the drinks that got him the headache, but whatever. He smiles at her, raising the cup of coffee in her direction. “Happy New Year.”
She clinks her cup against his, repeating “Happy New Year” to Ian. Ian watches all the other people milling about in the cafe, wondering what their lives are like two years ago. Is their life better than it was two years ago? Is it worse?
“Did you sleep well?” Mandy asks. “I called you like three times, but you didn’t answer.” She sips her drink, smirking. “Or was Mickey keeping you up?”
Ian stares at her, shocked for a bit. “There is something seriously wrong about you commenting about your brother’s sex life,” Ian says.
“I was asking about your sex life, Ian. It’s not my fault that you happened to shack up with my brother.” She raises an eyebrow at him, which is similar to how the Mandy he knows does it, but now Ian also knows it’s similar to how Mickey does it. “So, was he?”
“No,” Ian replies. “We were asleep til late, but then he left and I slept some more. What about you? Sleep well?”
“No.” Mandy grins like the Chesire Cat. “Karen was keeping me up.” Ian gets the innuendo and he’s happy Mandy is getting some, so he grins right back, even though he has no idea who Karen is. “Hey, are you okay?” Mandy asks, peering at him a little more closely. “You seem . . . strange.”
Ian tightens his grip around the coffee cup. “Strange?” he asks.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Mandy says, “but there’s something different about you.”
Ian feels like there’s something caught in his throat. He wants to tell her, because Mandy is his best friend, and he knows that he can trust her. “Okay,” he starts, licking his lips. “I don’t remember anything.”
Mandy furrows her eyebrows. “Don’t remember what? Last night?”
“No, I mean . . . anything. I don’t remember yesterday or the entire last year.” Mandy is frowning at him. Ian can feel his heart beating faster. “I don’t remember ever dating Mickey. I don’t—”
“Wait, what?” Mandy interrupts. She looks very upset, and Ian digs his nails into his palms, feeling slightly scared. “What the fuck do you mean, you don’t remember dating Mickey?”
“I mean—”
“You haven’t told Mickey this, have you?” Mandy says. “Because your anniversary is in six fucking days, Ian, and this—whatever the fuck you’re doing right now—is not fucking okay.”
Ian stares at her, speechless for a second. His and Mickey’s anniversary is in six days? January 7th? Mandy continues to look pissed (and slightly worried), so Ian immediately begins backtracking. “I only meant—fuck, I didn’t mean that, Mandy. I just meant that it's gone by so fast, you know? It just feels like yesterday that I was first meeting Mickey, or we first kissed. It feels like I don't even remember the last year. And now our anniversary is in six days. It just went by so quickly, you know?" Ian swallows, looking away. “I mean, imagine Mickey and I being together for ten years. Right now, that seems fucking crazy. But by then, it’d seem like those ten years went by quickly. And I just—that seems crazy, you know?”
Mandy is still giving him a weird look, but she nods. “I guess that makes sense.” She scratches a spot above her eyebrow. “I was worried for a second, you know. I thought you might break up with Mickey or something.”
“Break up with him?” Ian says. A little too loudly, if the stares the tables around him are giving him say anything. “I don’t—” Ian swallows. “I don’t ever want to do that.”
Mandy leans back in her chair, looking less angry. “I thought I was just about to have a heart attack. I mean, I heard you whine about Mickey for months, and then you claim you don’t remember anything? Fuck.”
“Yeah.” The coffee suddenly doesn’t taste as good anymore. Ian pushes the cup of coffee away from him. His one year anniversary with Mickey is in six days, not that he’d ever get there. “Fuck.”
-
Ian returns to the apartment at around ten-thirty. After going to the cafe, he and Mandy had hung out, going to see a movie on campus and then walking around campus. They’d sat down on a bench in one of the quads (Ian had actually recognized it, thankfully) and talked for what seemed like hours. It felt good, Ian realized. Everything felt easy in the next two years, easy and simple, and for a long moment, he’d felt warm and content and like he’d never want to go back.
Mickey is in bed when Ian walks into the room. Ian considers sleeping on the couch, remembers that their anniversary is in six days, and decides against it, feeling like if he did sleep on the couch, it’d send the wrong message to Mickey. Then again, Ian won’t wake up in the next day, only a repeat day. But he doesn’t know if that applies to where—if he sleeps on the couch, will he wake up on January 1st on the couch or on January 1st in the bed?
Ian mulls it over while he’s brushing his teeth. He wouldn't wake up on the couch, he thinks, because that means that the events of New Years Eve would change, too. And he’s always woken up naked in Mickey’s—their—bed. So he could do it, sleep on the couch. The result would be the same.
Ian doesn’t go through with it. He can’t go through with it. He stares at Mickey on the bed, lying down on his stomach and his hand clenched in a loose fist by his nose, and pulls off his shirt, sighing. He shucks off his pants too and climbs into the bed, careful not to disrupt Mickey, but Mickey wakes anyways.
“Where were you?” Mickey mumbles. His voice is rough and hoarse from sleep, and his hand finds Ian’s hip. Ian shivers and presses closer to Mickey’s body heat.
“Hung out with Mandy all day,” Ian replies, shifting closer, Mickey’s hand slipping to Ian’s back. Ian thinks it should be awkward to be in bed with Mickey, because he doesn’t really know him, but it’s not. It’s easy, something that just clicks without much thought.
“Mmm,” Mickey says, and Ian laughs, breath huffing against Mickey’s forehead. After a pause, Mickey says, “She good?”
Ian can’t even describe the feeling running through him, the thoughts racing through his head. He’s in bed with Mickey Milkovich, his best friend’s brother, and he keeps waking up in the same day, and Mandy is so beautiful and happy in the future. “She’s amazing,” Ian says.
IV.
Ian wakes up with a mouth on his neck.
It’s slow waking up at first—Ian is vaguely aware, in the back of his sleep-addled mind, that there’s a very, very warm presence all along his back, and something warm trailing along his thigh and hip, but it feels distant. Ian presses back into the warmth, slightly, and he gets a puff of breath against the back of his neck. Laughter.
“You’re not even awake, are you?” Mickey says, voice low. His hand sweeps up over Ian’s hip again. Ian tries to reply, but whatever he meant to say is unintelligible. Mickey laughs again. “What about now?” he asks, and then he—he’s not even sucking, at first, Mickey just puts his mouth to the curve of Ian’s neck, and it’s feels good, Ian thinks. But then Mickey moves higher on Ian’s neck, starts sucking on the spot below Ian’s jaw, and then Ian wakes up.
“Oh—Mickey—” Ian breathes, arching back into Mickey, and Mickey’s half hard against Ian’s ass.
“You awake now?” Mickey asks, breath fanning across the areas he’d just sucked on, and Ian shivers. He reaches back and grasps back at anything, finds Mickey’s thigh.
“Yes, Mickey, fuck,” Ian says, voice pitching high on the end when Mickey moves his hand and wraps it around Ian’s cock.
There’s nothing hurried about it, neither of them are too impatient or hasty. There’s no real desire to come, either, just the overwhelming need for this—the slow, warm grind of Mickey’s cock against Ian’s ass, Ian thrusting into the loose hold of Mickey’s fingers. Mickey’s mouth travels over Ian’s back, mouth pressed against Ian’s shoulder blade, and Ian can hear Mickey’s breath hitch every time Ian arches back against Mickey’s cock. The sunlight barely makes it through the blinds, illuminating lines along their chests, making Ian burn more than Mickey’s body and hands and mouth already are.
Ian pictures them, suddenly, imagines what they must look like: body’s pressed together so tightly there’s no room between them; Mickey gasping against Ian’s skin, forehead pressed to the back of his neck; Mickey’s hand stripping Ian’s cock at a slow, almost cruel pace, Ian thrusting into it in what’s almost lazy, the morning slow and warm; Ian’s hand, trying to find purchase along Mickey’s skin, thigh and arm and even reaching back high enough to muss up Mickey’s hair before his arm had started to hurt. Their gasps and moans are so low and quiet that they don’t make it outside of the bubble around their bed—those sounds are private, meant for each other’s ears only. They way Ian’s voice breaks when he moans, “Fuck, do that again, fuck,” can only ever belong to Mickey, the way Mickey groans, “Ian” is surely only ever to reach Ian’s ears. This is theirs, entirely, Mickey and Ian.
Ian reaches down to his cock, fingers crossing with Mickey’s and linking together, and Mickey says low in Ian’s ear, “Fuck, that’s hot.” It’s just—Mickey twists his wrist at just the right angle, pace picking up slightly, and Ian’s hand follows, and Ian’s coming, biting his lip and groaning low in his throat. Mickey comes short after, fingers digging into Ian’s hip and mouth pressed to the curve of Ian’s neck.
They lay there for a couple of seconds, breathing hard and loud into the late morning, and then Mickey huffs a laugh against Ian’s shoulder. “Good morning, huh?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Ian’s shoulder.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Ian says, moving so he’s laying on his back and can face Mickey. Mickey props himself on one elbow, looking down at Ian with a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Ian moves his hand into Mickey’s hair, one side messed up from where Ian had grasped it. Mickey watches Ian the entire time, turning his head into Ian’s touch, and something warm pools in Ian’s stomach. Ian ignores it in favor of pulling Mickey’s mouth down to his, and kissing him is almost just like the morning sex—warm and slow, with no need to go anywhere quickly. Mickey kisses him back, tongue just sweeping over Ian’s bottom lip, but it’s just a tease, one Ian allows this time. He sighs into Mickey’s mouth, digs his fingers into Mickey’s hair and keeps him close, presses kisses to the corner of Mickey’s mouth the second they pull away. Mickey tilts Ian’s chin back to kiss a little deeper. Ian is considering going for a second round when someone’s phone rings.
Mickey pulls away and presses his head into Ian’s neck, groaning. “I’m going to kill whoever is on the other line,” he says, voice muffled by Ian’s body. Ian strokes a hand through Mickey’s hair, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. When the phone stops ringing, Mickey sighs in relief, body relaxing so that he’s draping across Ian’s body. They lay there for a little while more, quiet, thinking, Ian’s fingers trailing through Mickey’s hair and Mickey’s breath slowing more and more towards sleep, until the phone rings again. “I’m getting fucking homicidal,” Mickey says on the second ring, and then he pushes himself up and off the bed to go answer it.
Mickey is curt on the phone, answering in short syllable answers, and he rolls his eyes as he hangs up. “Good news?” Ian asks.
Mickey gives him this look. “The greatest,” he says, and Ian knows where he’s going before Mickey even says it. “Econ group wants to meet right now.”
“You have to go?” Ian asks, shifting the sheets further away from his body. Mickey’s eyes linger on him for a moment, considering, and then he turns to the dresser.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. Ian grins at his back. “Amy was yelling her fucking ass off at me, so I should go.”
“Not even gonna take a shower?” Ian asks, watching Mickey pull on some clothes. “Just gonna go, smelling like sex?”
Mickey turns and grins at him. “I’ll just rub it in their faces. Not my fault they didn’t get laid last night. Or this morning.”
Ian snorts, stretching out, limbs feeling loose. Mickey watches Ian stretch and turns away sharply.
It hits Ian, suddenly, as Mickey turns away and goes into the bathroom, where he is and who he is with and what they just fucking did. Holy shit. Holy shit, he just had sex with Mickey. He hadn’t meant to—well, he had, he’d wanted it—but not really. He’d woken up with Mickey there and his body and mind were just naturally used to Mickey there. Then again, he had wanted it, Mickey pressed along his back, and when he started grinding his cock into Ian’s ass, Ian wasn’t going to complain.
Ian still felt weird though. He hadn’t wanted to do it earlier because it felt like cheating somehow, and now that assumption felt wrong. It just felt natural, like how Mickey and Ian would have done it if they were—Ian groans, letting his head fall back against the pillows. There’s no use figuring it out, no use trying to get ethics involved, it’s just—Ian and Mickey.
Ian presses his hands to his face, trying to sort his thoughts. His feelings are tumultuous, and trying to get them in order is practically impossible.
“You staying in today?” Mickey’s voice says, and Ian takes his hands away from his face to look at Mickey.
“Uh, yeah,” Ian says, watching Mickey put on some socks and grab his shoes. “How long will you be out?”
“Not sure yet,” Mickey replies. “Hopefully not long.” Sorry, Ian thinks, but you’re going to be home around five. Mickey grabs his jacket, walks over to the bed again, and gives Ian another long, slow kiss before pulling away. “But I’ll text you, yeah?”
Ian watches Mickey walk out the door, and he hears the apartment door open and close. “Yeah,” he says into the empty room.
-
Ian paces around the apartment, unsure of what to do. He’s distinctly not thinking about what just happened this morning—he’s still avoiding the bedroom, unable to look at the bed without flushing—and so he walks in circles in the living room, kitchen, and dining area.
Ian goes to the fridge and opens it for what seems like the eightieth time. He considers grabbing a beer to calm his mind, but remembers all the alcohol he (supposedly) had last night and slams the fridge door shut. He grabs a glass from the cupboard instead and fills it with water. Ian downs the glass in seconds and stares around the apartment, feeling water slide down his chin. Fuck.
Ian opens his phone, trying to get something about this life. When he opens the notes, the first one reads: don’t forget Mick’s anniversary present. Ian turns off the screen and stuffs the phone in his pocket, closing his eyes and leaning against the counter. Just thinking about the amount of pictures Ian probably has of him and Mickey on his phone makes his chest seize up. What the fuck is he supposed to do?
He isn’t meant for this. Lip would be better—he’d tackle every analytical side of this, would probably understand time travel to a certain extent, and would be able to get home. Debbie, too. Fiona would love to be able to repeat the same day to make sure she did every day to perfection, to analyze all her mistakes and fix it. Carl loves sci-fi shit. Ian is obviously failing miserably.
Ian opens his eyes and scrambles for his phone, muttering, “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” under his breath. He can’t believe he’d forgotten about his fucking family.
Fiona answers with a cheery, “Ian!”
“Hey, Fiona,” Ian says, already feeling better just from hearing her voice.
“How are you?” she asks. “How was your New Years?”
“Oh, um, it was great!” Ian says. “Yeah, Mickey and I had a lot of fun.”
Fiona laughs. “I’m guessing from your very general description that you had a lot to drink and don’t actually remember much of last night?”
Ian chuckles, glad for the excuse that alcohol is giving him to cover up his lack of memory. “Yeah, you’d be right.” Fiona laughs again. “What about you? New Years fun for you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Fiona says. “We had a regular Gallagher New Years, you know? It was fun. Kev and V brought booze over, and they thankfully managed to get a babysitter. It was so much fun with them there, they were so relaxed. And Gus brought his guitar, so he was taking requests. His singing dipped further into drunken karaoke the more he drank, but it was funny as fuck. And Debs brought some of her friends over and I allowed them one drink because it was a New fucking Year and Debs has done really well in high school so far.”
“She didn’t go overboard?” Ian asks, worried. “Her friends didn’t?”
“No, she’s good,” Fiona answers. “When I woke up, she was downstairs making coffee and said she didn’t want to start making food until the majority of people were up. She was perky, too, so definitely no hangover. And—oh, fuck! Remember what I told you the other day about Carl?”
“Um.” Ian has no fucking clue, of course. “Which one?” is what he settles on saying.
“Remember how I thought he had a girlfriend but was keeping her a secret from us?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ian lies. “So he has one? What’s her name?”
“No, he doesn’t have one,” Fiona says. Ian frowns. “He has a fucking boyfriend.”
Ian stares at the wall, but yes, he heard that correctly. “Carl has a boyfriend?” Ian repeats. The future is so fucking strange.
“Yeah. He brought this kid—Nate—over, and Carl claimed he was just a friend but we all saw them kissing when the ball dropped. He didn’t mention anything to you? I thought he might’ve.” There’s voices in the background, something slamming hard.
“He hasn’t said anything to me,” Ian tells her. Or maybe Carl had, who knows. “Did you give him the talk?”
“Please, I gave it to him the minute he hit puberty,” Fiona says.
“The gay one?” Ian asks. “Trust me, that’ll be completely different.”
“I think he’s bi, actually,” Fiona says.
Ian rolls his eyes. “I meant sex talk, Fiona.”
“No, I figure that’s best left to you,” Fiona says. “When’s the next time you’re coming home? You can do it then. It’s probably better if you tell him face to face.”
“I don’t remember at the moment,” Ian says quickly. He wishes he could tell her something along the lines of I’m currently suffering from a memory loss due to time travel, could you please not ask me any questions?
“Well, bring Mickey this time, will you? I don’t think I can listen to Debbie and Carl complaining again.” She pauses. “Or see you moping.”
“Hey,” Ian objects, causing Fiona to laugh. Jesus fuck, Mickey’s been to his house? That’s some serious fucking shit.
There’s another crash on Fiona’s end, and she sighs. “Look, I better go before Liam’s drumming session with Gus earns me dented pans. Call me, won’t you? I know college life is busy, but we miss you.”
“Of course,” Ian promises. But fuck, it’s a promise he knows he won’t be able to keep, not right now. “Talk to you later. Love you, Fiona.”
“Love you too, Ian. Kick some college ass!”
Fiona hangs up. Ian feels a lot happier, way more comforted. Fiona seems happy and is apparently with some guy named Gus. Carl and Debbie seem well, if Debbie doing well in high school and Carl being bi says anything.
Maybe everything is just better in the future. It makes Ian happy for something to look forward to.
-
There’s something definitely wrong, because none of this is how it’s supposed to happen.
Not that there’s any way the supposed time travel forward a little over a year and the repeat of that same day is supposed to go. But Ian assumes that if it’s supposed to go one way, it’s not like this.
In movies and books and TV shows, there’s always very tiny, distinct things that help the protagonist. That’s what Ian needs right now: small but obvious moments that he can pick out. Like the alarm going off at 7:33, and then Lip calling Ian exactly 9 minutes later, and Lip answering the phone with something very distinct. Something like, “Ian, top of the morning to you!” And then Ian could tell someone—Mickey, most likely, since he’s the future love interest that the protagonist usually falls in love with. So Ian tells Mickey, “Hey, I’ve been repeating this day over and over!” and Mickey wouldn’t believe him until Ian says, “Well, that clock is gonna go off at 7:33” (and it does), and “Watch, at 7:42, Lip is gonna call me” (which he will), “and when I answer the phone, Lip is going to say, ‘Ian, top of the morning to you’” (which he does). And when all of it comes true, Mickey will believe Ian and then they, as the romantic duo, figure the time travel shit out and Ian returns back to the past. Simple.
Except it’s not fucking like that. Nothing is always certain—he wakes up in different positions, Mickey in or out of the bed, talking to Lip or Mandy or Fiona. It changes, there’s nothing exactly the same.
That’s not true either, Ian thinks. There are some things that are always set in stone: he always wakes up naked in their bed. Mickey always goes to his econ group. Ian is still living in this apartment with Mickey, he’s still dating Mickey.
Those are all big, important things, though. Maybe that’s the key to it: the big, unchangeable things always happen, but smaller, looser things don’t. Ian always wakes up naked in their bed because they’d had sex New Year’s night. Ian can’t change that because he’s only in this day. And Mickey going to his econ group—that has to do with Mickey’s major, his college and future, and it must be so set in stone that it doesn’t change. And Ian’s still in the apartment because he’s still dating Mickey.
The thought that his relationship with Mickey is so strong and destined that it never changes in the repeating days makes his stomach swoop, nerves dancing in his gut.
Smaller things can be changed easier—Ian can call Lip and hang out at the apartment all day or call Mandy and hang out with her or call Fiona and do whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s not destined to be, so it can change.
But there has to be something. Something that makes this day special, that makes anything that can possibly happen today important. Something that connects everything in these moments. What does this apartment, Ian’s relationship, Lip, Mandy, and Fiona all have in common?
Ian looks around the apartment, aware of his heart pounding and a fuzzy ocean noise filling his ears, and takes in all the furniture and pictures and he fucking knows what they all have in common.
Mickey.
-
Ian is tapping his foot against the coffee table in the living room, and he keeps glancing at the door from where he’s sitting on the couch. Mickey should be home any minute, and Ian has been trying to convince himself all day that he’s gonna tell Mickey. But it’s fucking hard, and his heart is going nuts, and there’s so many ways this could go wrong.
You haven’t told Mickey this, have you? Mandy had said.
Fuck.
Just when Ian’s losing his confidence and has almost decided to not tell Mickey, Mickey walks through the door. Ian’s heart leaps up into his throat.
“Hey,” Mickey says as he closes the door.
“Hey,” Ian says, voice hoarse. He coughs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Mickey takes his bag off and puts it on the side table, movements slowing down and watching Ian warily. “You okay?” he asks slowly. “You seem strange.”
Isn’t that Ian’s fucking life right now. “I need to tell you something,” Ian starts, fiddling with the bottom of his shirt.
Mickey stops at that. Tensions racks up so high in the room that it’s tangible, pressing against Ian in an uncomfortable, oppressive way. “Well,” Mickey says stiffly. “Go on.”
You haven’t told Mickey this, have you?
“I don’t remember anything,” Ian says, watching Mickey’s reaction.
“You don’t remember anything,” Mickey repeats flatly. “Anything of what?”
Ian’s pretty sure his heart is trying to break its way out of his ribcage, it’s fluttering so much. “Us,” Ian says. “This last year.”
Mickey stares at him for a second before breaking out into a laugh. It makes chills settle on Ian’s skin. It’s a hollow laugh. “What the fuck ever, Ian,” Mickey says. He starts to take off his jacket and walks to their bedroom.
Ian groans. It didn’t work. Of fucking course it hadn’t, and now everything is fucked. “Mickey, wait,” Ian says, his voice already pleading. Mickey ignores him, continues to walk into the bedroom. He disappears from sight. Ian groans and follows him. “Mickey, please!” Mickey is angrily taking off his shoes in the bedroom, head down and refusing to look at Ian. “Really?” Ian says. “You’re not gonna talk to me?”
“What the fuck do you want me to say?” Mickey says sharply. “You want me to ask what the fuck you’re doing right now? Because mostly—because whatever you’re doing is fucking disgusting and I can’t—I can’t even believe you right now.”
“Mickey, wait, it’s not what you think,” Ian says, not sure where he’s gonna go with it.
“No? So you didn’t just say you don’t remember dating me for the entire last year?” Mickey demands. Ian stays quiet. “What the fuck are you playing at?” Mickey continues. “I told you, I—all the shit I’ve been through with my dad and how hard it was for me to actually accept liking you and fuck, you’re—I can’t believe you right now. I can’t fucking—” Mickey breaks off, looking at Ian with a hurt and angry expression on his face. “There’s six fucking days until our anniversary, Ian,” Mickey says, low and angry. “If you got something to fucking say, then say it.”
It hits Ian, what Mickey’s implying, and Ian gets scared, to the point of desperation. It’s obvious trying to tell Mickey anything further of what Ian actually means is useless, and only pushing it further, so Ian decides to go with the story Ian gave Mandy. “That’s not what I meant, Mickey,” Ian says firmly. Mickey snorts in response, shaking his head. “That’s not what I fucking meant! I can’t believe that you thought I would—what? Break up with—”
“Well your words certainly weren’t a fucking marriage proposal!” Mickey exclaims. “What the fuck was I supposed to think?”
“I only meant,” Ian says, taking a step forward slowly and thinking of the reason he gave Mandy, “that it’s gone by so quickly, Mickey. This last year, us dating—all of it’s gone by so quickly. And I don’t remember all of it and that’s—that’s so strange. That’s so strange to me, because every day I spend with you I’m committing everything to memory, but I was thinking about our anniversary and—and I don’t remember everything. And I thought about being together for more than a year, for five years, and all the stuff I’m not going to remember, and—Mickey, I never meant any of what you said earlier, I never—I’m so, so sorry—”
“Ian,” Mickey says, and he sounds and looks so tired. “I think you should go.”
Ian’s stomach drops. “What? Mickey, no, no—”
“Ian,” Mickey interrupts. “We’re only going to be angry at each other. We need some time apart. I’m too fucking upset right now, and you’ll just continue that.”
“So you want me to leave?” Ian demands. “That’s your fucking solution?”
Mickey doesn’t look at him. Ian turns on his heel and walks out angrily, slamming the door behind him so hard that the door rattles.
You haven’t told Mickey this, have you?
-
When Ian returns, it’s pretty late. He doesn’t know how long he’d been out. He’d mostly just walked around the campus, went to visit his old dorm and walked through the building, then took his daily walk to every classroom. Ian had stopped in one of the quads, sitting on a bench and pressing his hands to his face and trying to hold it the fuck together. How long could he stay in this fucking future? How many times was he going to relive this day? He couldn’t do this, obviously. Ian couldn’t tell people that he was reliving the same day, but what else was he supposed to do?
Ian had then walked into the student library and walked through the shelves, recognizing the rows and tables and sinking in a chair by the corner. He picked a random book from the shelf and started reading, just to distract his mind, and before he knew it the library was emptying out.
If it took Ian a pretty long time to find his way back to Mickey’s apartment, well, he can hardly be blamed.
Mickey is in the bedroom when Ian returns, but he hasn’t gotten in bed yet. It looks like he did a huge clean up of the apartment, because everything looks a lot more neat. Mickey is picking up clothes in the bedroom and throwing them into the basket, and when he sees Ian, he stops and stares, a t-shirt still in his hand. “That was a long time,” Mickey says at last, and Ian tries to decide whether that’s a criticism or not and can’t come up with anything.
“I spent a lot of time walking. And thinking,” Ian says, careful. He’s not exactly sure what page he and Mickey are on right now. “I’m sorry, okay? Nothing about what I said was right. And I shouldn’t have said it. I would take it all back if I could go back in time.” The irony isn’t fucking lost on Ian. “Mickey, I’m just—I’m sorry.”
Mickey nods, throws the t-shirt into the basket. “I’m sorry too,” he says. “I overreacted.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Mickey looks at Ian then, eyebrows raised. “I jumped to conclusions and then jumped down your throat.” He looks away, biting his lip. “Ian, I told you to leave. Right after I accuse you of breaking up with me, I told you to leave.”
“You were right,” Ian says. “We needed to be away from each other. Otherwise it would’ve just exploded more.”
Mickey shrugs. “Whatever was right or wrong. I’m sorry for it.”
It isn’t until after they’ve crawled into bed and are laying rigid under the sheets, not touching, that Mickey sighs. He touches Ian’s shoulder hesitantly and says, voice quiet, “The first time we went on a date I was super excited. And I was so happy that it was finally happening that I was just cataloguing everything. The night seemed to go on forever, and I thought I was going to remember everything about that night.” His thumb brushes over Ian’s shoulder. “I don’t, now. I only remember a couple of things. So I—I understand what you were saying. In a way.
Ian nods, pressing his lips together, and then reaches for Mickey, hating the space between them. Ian realizes that he’s forgiven as Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s waist and pulls him close.
And even if he isn’t forgiven, it doesn’t matter. It’ll all be forgotten by the next day.
V.
Ian wakes up, and his first thought jumps to the argument of last night.
Mickey is asleep next to him. Even though they’d fallen asleep close, Mickey isn’t close right now—he’s curled facing Ian, arm extended and one hand gripping Ian’s bicep. Ian knows that the spacing between them has nothing to do with the argument but just with the way the universe decided they’d wake up on this repeat day, but it still hurts, just a little.
Ian watches Mickey’s face, peaceful and slack. His eyes trace over Mickey’s mouth, lips parted slightly, and then his jawline. He’s happy that Mickey won’t remember last night, but Ian thinks it will always be in the back of his own mind.
There’s something there, Ian thinks, watching the way Mickey’s eyes move under his eyelids, the way his eyelashes just barely sweep across his cheek. Mickey’s hand is still on Ian’s bicep, F-U-C-K facing Ian directly, and Ian has never related to a hand so much in his entire life. It’s cute, the way Mickey holds onto Ian. Ian touches his fingers softly to Mickey’s knuckle, and Mickey reflexively tightens his grip on Ian’s arm.
There’s something there. Something about Mickey that has Ian repeating this day over and over. Something about Mickey that brings Mandy and Lip and Fiona and—as Ian found out through Fiona—Debbie and Carl all together. Something about him that makes Ian love him so—and Ian has to love him, this year in the future, the Ian dating Mickey must love him—if Mickey is here, every morning and night that Ian repeats this day.
So it’s Mickey. And Ian is beginning to think that maybe Mickey should stay home today.
-
Mickey wakes up around ten. He stretches at first, burrowing a bit into the pillow and shifting under the blankets. When he opens his eyes, he stares at Ian for a second, and it’s like every single angry and hurtful moment from last night comes back. But then Mickey smiles at him, murmurs a sleepy, “Hey,” that makes the breath in Ian’s throat catch.
“Hey,” Ian says, smiling back at him. He closes his hand over Mickey’s, letting their fingers slot together.
“You been awake awhile?” Mickey asks.
Ian shakes his head. “Not long,” Ian says, because he doesn’t really know. However long it was, it hadn’t felt long, laying in bed with Mickey grasping onto Ian’s arm. Time had expanded in some way, seconds and fragments slowing down, until the only seconds Ian could count were Mickey’s deep breathing. “Breakfast?” Ian asks, and when Mickey nods, Ian climbs out of the bed and heads into the kitchen.
Ian has just finished brewing the coffee when he hears Mickey’s phone go off. Econ group, Ian thinks, and he knows that his job for today has started.
Ian walks into their bedroom and leans against the doorframe, watching Mickey get dressed. When he starts to pull on a shirt—a dark button-up that really does wonders—Ian goes over to him, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist and pressing along his back. Ian nuzzles into Mickey’s hair, breathing in his scent, and feels dizzy with the feeling running through him.
Mickey sighs and leans back against Ian’s hold, lacing their fingers together. We fit together so perfectly, Ian thinks.
“Going somewhere?” Ian asks.
“Yeah, econ group called,” Mickey says. He turns around in Ian’s arms, rests his hands on Ian’s waist. Ian likes their height difference, the way Mickey has to tilt his head up a little to look at Ian.
“You’re meeting them today?” Ian says, already knowing the answer, but hey. He’s trying to get Mickey to stay. “The day after New Years?”
“I know, they’re fucking nuts,” Mickey says.
“You wanna know what I think?” Ian asks, leaning in for a kiss. Mickey meets him, fingers tightening on Ian’s hips.
Mickey makes a humming noise into Ian’s mouth. When he pulls away, he says, “I think I’m about to know, huh?”
Ian smiles at him. “You should stay,” Ian says, hooking his fingers on Mickey’s belt loops. “Skip the meeting and stay with me.”
Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Right.”
“I’m serious,” Ian says, giving him another kiss. Makes it a little longer than the last one. “Stay in today.”
“Just don’t show up?” Mickey asks. “Be the only one not there?”
Ian shrugs. “It’s not like you don’t have a good excuse. It’s the day after New Years, and your hangover is killing you, and . . .” Ian kisses Mickey again, nips at his bottom lip. “. . . your boyfriend wants you to stay with him. It’s a dire situation, really.” Ian can feel Mickey’s fingers press harder against Ian, considering. “Tell them it’s our anniversary,” Ian offers.
“You mean the one in six days?”
Ian grins at him. “They don’t know that.” Mickey laughs, looking over to the side and biting his lip.
“You know . . .” Mickey says, and Ian thinks he might’ve done it, he might’ve convinced him. “We could just say the anniversary was last night.”
“New Years?” Ian says.
Mickey looks at him like seriously, dumbass? “Well, yeah,” he says, “but we could be celebrating you fucking up.”
Ian furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Fucking up?” he repeats. What the hell is Mickey talking about now?
“Oh, what, are you reenacting yourself from a year ago?” Mickey teases, leaning back against the dresser. Ian is so confused, because he has no idea what he did a year ago. “Even though it was all your fault?”
Ian’s gonna do this carefully. “My fault?” Ian says, pretending to be offended. “How was it my fault?”
Mickey laughs. “Oh, you’re right, I forgot. It wasn’t you who kissed me last year on New Years and then got so black-out drunk that you forgot it for a week. It wasn’t you who then only remembered when Mandy told you what happened, right, I remember now.”
Ian’s mind races. So—a year ago on New Years Eve, Ian kissed Mickey (he’s assuming at the ball drop), and then forgot it in the morning. He forgets it for a week, apparently, and then Mandy tells him what happened. Ian guesses that’s on the 7th, because then he and Mickey are together.
“You’re right,” Ian says, leaning in close enough so that their noses brush. “It must’ve been some other attractive ginger that kissed you that night.”
Mickey huffs, his breath fanning over Ian’s face. “I’m still pissed about that, you know.” When Ian raises an eyebrow at him, he says, “You forgot for an entire week. I had to go for an entire week pretending like you didn’t full on make out with me. It was fucking torture.”
Ian can’t take it anymore, so he closes the (tiny) gap between them and kisses Mickey, pushing Mickey back against the dresser. “You have to admit,” Ian says, and then is delayed by Mickey kissing him again. “You have to admit that it’s better overall.”
“What?” Mickey asks, eyes on Ian’s lips and obviously distracted.
“Having our anniversary on New Years would have been so cliché,” Ian says. “It’s better on the seventh. More memorable.”
Mickey pulls back to look Ian in the face. “Sorry, but what day is more fucking memorable than New Years? Seriously?”
“You know what I mean,” Ian says, leaning in again, but this time Mickey pulls his head back, just enough so that their mouths miss, and the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth is so fucking attractive.
“Don’t think you’re getting out of this,” Mickey murmurs, pulling his hands away from Ian’s hips. “I still have to go to that meeting, albeit late as fuck now.”
Mickey moves forward, like he’s gonna move out of the tiny area Ian’s cornered him into against the dresser, but Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s chest and pushes him back against the dresser. Mickey watches him, eyes hot, and a thrill runs down Ian’s spine. “Wanna know what’s gonna happen if you go to that meeting?” Ian says, voice low. Ian runs his hand down Mickey’s chest and Mickey exhales shakily, bites his lip. Ian hooks two of his fingers in Mickey’s belt, knuckles brushing the Mickey’s skin. Mickey’s head is tilted back, watching Ian, gaze heavy. “This is what’s gonna happen,” Ian says, running his thumb right over the skin under Mickey’s jeans. “You’re going to be working with your group and all you’re gonna be thinking about is me.” Ian starts unbuckling Mickey’s belt, letting his fingers brush over Mickey’s skin as much as possible. He glances at Mickey to make sure there’s no objection, but Mickey only raises an eyebrow at him, like he’s fucking unimpressed.
He’s fucking goading Ian, and he knows it. Ian can’t believe how fucking turned on that makes him.
“You’re gonna think about me staying here and jerking off,” Ian says, slipping his hand down the front of Mickey’s pants. Mickey’s hips hitch slightly forward when Ian presses against his cock, and Ian bites his lip to stop grinning. “You’re going to think about me on the bed,” he continues, pitching his voice lower, stepping closer, and just teasing Mickey, giving him only the tiniest bit of friction. Mickey is breathing harder now, but he’s trying to hide it. “Maybe I’ll go slow,” Ian says, leaning in closer and brushing his lips along Mickey’s jaw. “You know how I like it, how I like it slow. I’d touch myself lightly, tease myself, try not come for as long as possible.” Ian rubs his hand along Mickey’s hardening cock, sucking on a spot below Mickey’s neck. He can hear Mickey’s breath hitching. “Maybe I’ll go fast,” Ian breathes, “because all I wanna do it come, so I’ll set the pace fast and brutal, the way you—”
Mickey grabs Ian’s face in his hands and kisses him hard, rough, mouth demanding and consuming, and Ian gives up any pretenses of teasing anymore. Mickey grabs at Ian’s shirt and pulls it over his head, and then Mickey is reaching for Ian, pressing hot kisses to Ian’s neck. Ian grabs his shirts and tries to undo the buttons, but he only gets about halfway before he get stuck on a button. “Mickey,” Ian growls, and Mickey laughs and the shirt is basically torn off.
Mickey’s hands are hot on Ian’s skin and his mouth hotter, and Ian thinks there must be some kind of record for how fast they take off their pants and boxers. Mickey drags Ian to the bed, pulling Ian down on top of him, and Ian slides in between Mickey’s thighs easily. Mickey rolls his hips upward, cock rubbing against Ian’s thigh, and he curses. “What do you want?” Ian asks, grinding down. Ian feels dizzy with the possibilities, of every combination there could be, but he wants to do this right.
“Shouldn’t that be fucking obvious?” Mickey gasps, grinding up and letting their cocks slide together. It’s slick of precome and feels so fucking good, and Ian puts his mouth to Mickey’s collarbone and sucks a hickey to his skin.
“I mean,” Ian says huskily, “do you want my mouth?” He sucks on a spot higher, at the base of Mickey’s throat. “Fingers?” And higher again, teeth scraping along Mickey’s jaw. “Cock?”
Mickey’s fingers grip Ian’s ass, hard, and then he says, “Fuck, your mouth, I want—Ian, your mouth.”
Ian rolls his hips sharply, enjoying the friction of their cocks, and says, “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that. Where do you want my mouth?”
Mickey pauses, puts a hand on Ian’s chest, and stares at him, mouth open. His eyes focus on Ian’s mouth, and Ian can feel heat at the base of his spine and the pit of his stomach. And then Mickey licks his lips before turning over onto his stomach.
“Oh, fuck,” Ian whispers, and Mickey laughs, arching his back pointedly. Ian puts his hand on the small of Mickey’s back, presses his ass down, and then begins to kiss his way down Mickey’s spine.
-
“Stop bothering me,” Mickey grumbles, opening his eyes to look at Ian.
“You like it,” Ian responds simply, and he continues tracing the slope of Mickey’s nose and the shape of Mickey’s mouth—fuck, Mickey’s mouth—and turns his head to kiss Mickey’s shoulder. The corner of Mickey’s mouth pulls up, not disagreeing, and he continues his patterns on Ian’s shoulder. “Are you writing something?” Ian asks, sliding his leg further between Mickey’s.
“Yeah,” Mickey says. “I’m just writing ‘I hate you,’ over and over.”
“I totally believe you,” Ian says, nuzzling against Mickey’s collarbone. Ian watches Mickey’s mouth turn into a bigger smile, and he’s thinking about kissing Mickey, maybe, and then he thinks about New Years. “Tell me about it.”
Mickey looks at him. “Tell you about what?”
“That first time we met.”
“You know what happened.”
Ian leans up on one elbow to look at Mickey. “I want to know from your perspective,” Ian says, and Mickey’s hand stops writing and lies flat between Ian’s shoulder blades.
“Alright,” Mickey says, shifting on the pillow. “We were at dinner with Mandy—well, we were at the dinner because of Mandy. She wanted us to meet, and I said okay because I knew that’s what would make her happy. It was a Saturday.” Mickey frowns, considering. “Yeah, yeah, it was a Saturday, because Mandy and I were originally gonna go get dinner on Friday but she moved it to Saturday when you decided to come with.” Mickey smiles at Ian. “I don’t know what you’re expecting. It wasn’t like I saw you and it was love at first sight or whatever. You were just Mandy’s friend. I was surprised, because I thought you would be this horribly nice person, you know, who just does everything perfectly, but you weren’t like that.” He grabs Ian’s hand and rubs his thumb over the back. “You had a number written here. Eighty-three.” Mickey laughs. “I don’t know why I remember that number. I think it’s because I asked you what it was for, and you told me it was a reminder. Then you asked me what the writing on my hands were for, and I told you I would fuck you up, and you laughed. You kinda stunned me with your humor. I just thought you were a good friend to Mandy and I was glad that you were hers.”
Mickey goes to pull his hand away from Ian’s, but Ian grips it tightly, laces their fingers together. “Alright, then tell me about the kiss,” Ian suggests.
“The kiss?”
“New Years. The anniversary we’re supposed to be celebrating today.”
Ian traces the lines of Mickey’s palm while Mickey talks. “We were at that party over on the east side of campus. It was nearing the countdown and I was—fuck, I don’t remember, in some room. And I was with this kid from my physics class, Kyle. The ball was dropping and people were counting and you just came out of fucking nowhere and kissed me.” Ian laughs, hiding his face into Mickey’s neck. “I mean, we’d been talking for a while,” Mickey continues, “and we both knew that we liked each other. But I mean, seriously, you just fucking appeared out of thin air and kissed me. The ball hadn’t even dropped yet. Because you know how people kiss when the ball actually drops and it’s the New Year? You kissed me when everyone was on eight or something. And then you kissed me through the countdown and for about half an hour afterwards.” Mickey laughs suddenly. “And then you got so drunk you forgot. I couldn’t fucking believe it. It would be a thing that happened to me.”
“I’m sorry!” Ian groans into Mickey’s neck.
“See, it is all your fault,” Mickey says, running his hand up through Ian’s hair. “That was a torturous week, let me fucking tell you. Mandy just got fed up with my moping and anger and told you straight up, and then you remembered—in fragments, you said—and then you came over to my dorm and kissed me again. You were just very liberal with your kisses then.”
“I am now, too,” Ian says, and kisses the side of Mickey’s neck just to prove his point.
“That’s definitely true,” Mickey agrees. “I’m not complaining, though.” Mickey pulls Ian closer to his body. “What about you? First time you saw me and all that shit?”
“Oh, it was definitely love at first sight,” Ian says, sighing as dramatically as possible.
Mickey just laughs.
-
Ian’s not exactly sure how to feel, but he knows that things are coming together.
He has a timeline of events—things that are important enough that they’re mentioned more than once or are important to today. Yesterday was New Year’s, and New Year’s is significant because of that kiss, but their actual anniversary date is the seventh of January. It was interesting, Ian thinks, to see the glimpses into their relationship through what Mickey told him. Almost like tiny little clues.
That is coming together, but Ian’s feelings are not. It feels like they are suddenly falling apart, like his feelings are slippery and he can’t fully grasp any of them. And Ian can’t—there is this feeling welling up in his chest every time Mickey kisses him, every time Mickey’s fingertips so much as graze his sides or his jaw. It’s enough, it’s enough to send Ian’s heart skittering and his stomach jumping. It’s almost too much, but Ian knows that it truly isn’t enough, that Ian will never get enough of this—
This—Mickey getting up to make them a quick lunch, so he cooks some grilled cheese and they eat in in bed. They get grease all over their fingers, and Mickey takes Ian’s hands and sucks the grease off of Ian’s fingers. It shouldn’t be hot at all, really, but it ends in Ian climbing into Mickey’s lap and them rubbing off, hands digging into each other’s hair and Mickey’s teeth biting into Ian’s neck as he comes.
This—Ian pressing Mickey down on the bed, hands splayed out across his torso, sinking down on Mickey’s cock, and Ian can’t think straight, he can’t get his thoughts in order. Mickey gives Ian soft, reassuring touches and murmurs until Ian snaps at him to fuck me already, fuck, and Mickey laughs and complies, thrusting up harder. “You know what they say about New Years?” Mickey asks between gasps, fingernails digging crescent moons into Ian’s lower back.
“What?” Ian’s legs are starting to burn but he loves it, loves the way his thighs shake and Mickey’s eyes glaze over and the way pleasure rushes throughout his body when Mickey hits just the right spot as he thrusts up.
“Whatever you do on New Years, you do for the rest of the year,” Mickey says, groaning on the end when Ian clenches tight around him.
“So I’m gonna ride you for the rest of this year is what you’re saying,” Ian says. He leans forward more, slides his hands up Mickey’s chest, and when Mickey thrusts, it’s not just pleasure—Ian sees stars, gasping loudly.
“I meant sex but—oh fuck—fuck, that works too,” Mickey says. “Fuck, Ian, touch yourself.”
Ian is so fucking ready to come it’s unbelievable, but he takes it slow anyways, runs his thumb over the head of his cock and bites his lip so hard he’s pretty sure he tastes blood. Mickey curses beneath him, picking up the sharp snaps of his hip, and it propels Ian forward into his hand, and it only takes a few more pulls. Ian comes, clenching down on Mickey’s cock, and says raggedly, chest heaving, “Mickey, come on, come for me, fuck, Mickey—”
This—something Ian never knew he needed, Mickey’s hands and eyes and mouth on him, the flush of his chest, the way Mickey’s mouth parts when he comes. This feeling, trapped inside Ian’s ribcage, that feels very, very content.
-
“Why did you choose me?” Ian asks later, when they’re curled up together in bed, arm around Mickey’s waist and forehead pressed to the back of his neck. The clock has long passed into nighttime, and Ian can feel twelve coming soon and sleep coming even sooner. He wants to get in as many things in as possible, as many discussions and answers that he can.
“What does that even mean?” Mickey says.
“It’s hard to explain,” Ian replies. “Why did you decide to date me? I mean—that sounds strange, but you didn't have to act on your feelings for me, so. I don’t know. Why me and not others before you?”
“Not that there were many before you,” Mickey says slowly, “but I guess it was because I was finally free. I was in college and I was doing what I wanted and Mandy was happy and I was away from my shitty father. And I was beginning to fall for you and I decided that I shouldn’t let that hold me back. I decided that yes, I wanted this, and so I might as well fucking go for it, you know?” Mickey pauses, rearranges himself on the pillow. “Mostly I just let it be. I just let things happen the way it was supposed to. I went for it and waited to see how well it would turn out.”
Ian laughs and presses a kiss to the back of Mickey’s neck. “I’d say it turned out well.”
“And I’d agree,” Mickey says quietly, and Ian presses his forehead a little harder against Mickey’s back, heart racing.
“Mickey, I—” Ian breaks off, realizing that it’s not his right. He doesn’t deserve to say those words to Mickey, not matter how much he might want Mickey to hear them, because that belonged to the Ian that was really supposed to be here, the Ian that Mickey already knew. “I’m glad that you chose me.”
Mickey brings Ian’s fingers up to his mouth and just holds them to his mouth for a while. Ian thinks Mickey knows what Ian was actually going to say, because right before Ian falls asleep—or maybe when Mickey thinks Ian is asleep—Mickey turns in Ian’s arms and whispers the words against Ian’s forehead.
VI.
Ian wakes up and stares at the ceiling. For once, upon waking, Ian doesn’t feel panicked or worried. He feels calm and sure.
Mickey head’s is on Ian’s stomach. Ian guesses that it’ll get uncomfortable soon, but for now Ian allows it, cards his fingers through Mickey’s hair. He thinks about yesterday and regrets it immensely that Mickey won’t remember yesterday. The thought hurts physically, as Ian imagines the hours they’d rocked together and spent kissing and touching each other. Mickey won’t remember, and Ian loses his fucking breath.
But.
But Ian thinks he gets it now. He remembers Mickey’s words from last night: “Mostly I just let it be. I just let things happen the way it was supposed to. I went for it and waited to see how well it would turn out.” Ian’s beginning to think that’s what he’s supposed to be doing, too. He’s not here for some almighty purpose of changing his destiny, and he’s not in the future because everything’s gone terribly wrong and he needs to understand what he has to fix when he goes back in the past. He’s just here. Ian thinks that was the way things were meant to be.
Stop being so confused by everything, stop asking so many questions, stop trying to do anything, really, to try to understand the future. Ian’s not supposed to understand it, he’s just supposed to see it. He’s supposed to see how happy Mandy is, how good his family’s life is in the future, and how great he and Mickey are going to be. He’s just a passerby.
So Ian is just going to let things happen, and watch, and wait and see how well it turns out.
-
Mickey wakes forty-five minutes later, back of his head completely messed up from bedhead, and Ian kisses him just because he’s got a sinking feeling in his stomach telling him that his hunch is right.
And if his hunch is right, this is his last day.
Mickey leaves for his econ group, and if Ian pushes him against the counter with his hips and kisses him messily, desperately, then it can just be put up to Ian’s headache. Or something.
He calls Lip after Mickey leaves, listens to the sound of his voice and the certain language he uses. He knows his brother so well, and it comforts Ian that he can recognize his moods even now by the way he talks.
He calls Fiona next, asks her how her New Years was and enjoys the different story she tells. He asks her about Gus and how she and him are doing, he asks about how well Debs is doing in school and in her social life, and he asks about how Carl’s doing in school and his newfound bisexuality. He tries to get her to laugh as much as possible, because he feels that Fiona will always deserve as many as she needs.
He calls Mandy then, asks if they can meet for breakfast or lunch or that ugly word in between. He meets her at Rita's but they order food and talk and joke around, talking about classes and the people in the cafe with them and how each of their families are doing. Ian asks her about her plans for the New Year and what her resolutions are and catalogues every smile and smirk and laugh. He asks her if they can hang out later, and suggests that she bring Karen. Ian decides upon meeting Karen that he likes her, likes the way she jokes and makes Mandy laugh, likes the way she stares people down while holding Mandy’s hand.
Ian returns home and Mickey’s just finished making dinner, and they eat it on the couch while watching some detective show that hasn’t come out yet to Ian. After they finish eating, Ian cleans their plates as quickly as possible so that he can lay down next to Mickey on the couch, resting his head on Mickey’s chest.
When they go to sleep, Ian watches Mickey sitting on the bed while checking his phone. He walks over and pushes Mickey’s phone to the side, and Mickey looks at him, confused. Ian straddles Mickey’s lap and kisses him, pays careful attention to Mickey’s upper lip, his lower lip, delves inside with this tongue and chases any bliss of wet, of heat, of Mickey’s tongue sweeping across his own, of Mickey moaning into his mouth.
Mickey’s fingers pull Ian’s shirt drastically to one side, fabric stretching over Ian’s back, and Ian clutches onto Mickey tighter than normal. “I want this,” Ian whispers fiercely, not defining what this really is. “I want this,” he whispers again and again, pressed into the dip of Mickey’s bottom lip like he’s sealing a promise, and Ian fucking means it. He wants the meetings with Mandy in coffeeshops and the key to Mickey’s apartment and Mickey in his bed every night. He wants it all.
Ian stays up until the last possible minute, talking to Mickey and then eventually just watching him sleep after.
Ian closes his eyes and holds onto Mickey tight.
VII.
Ian wakes up alone.
He doesn’t open his eyes. There’s still a tiny part of him that hopes, that rationalizes, that says, Mickey could just be making breakfast. Mickey could just be in the bathroom. It’s confirmed when Ian reaches across the bed. His hand doesn’t meet Mickey’s body, nor does it meet the empty space of Mickey’s bed.
It hits the end of the bed, and then Ian truly does know.
He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling of his dorm room. He sits up slowly, taking in his surroundings with a calm mind, and glances at the clock on his bedside table. His phone is there too, so Ian grabs it and checks the date.
Friday, October 9th, 2015.
Ian stares at the screen for a little longer before sighing and throwing the phone down on his bed. He pads into the bathroom to wash his face and wake up a little more. Not that he’d woken up with a headache like the last couple of days, but even then, the cold water feels nice. When Ian looks in the mirror as he dries his face, he notices something on his neck.
A hickey.
Specifically, a hickey under the right side of his jaw, a place Ian knows Mickey had sucked on last night.
Ian touches the bruise and then closes his eyes, leaning against the sink and smiling. So all of it was real then. He’s just only come back.
Ian had figured it out.
He practically races back out to his phone and calls Mandy. “Hey, Mandy,” Ian says when she answers.
“Hey,” she greets him, and it’s weird how she doesn’t sound different at all but she’ll just be so much more in the future.
“I was wondering if you wanted to hang out,” Ian says. “I’m swamped with work today, but maybe tonight?”
“I can’t, I’m having dinner with my brother,” Mandy says.
Ian’s heart starts pounding. Mickey. “That’s okay, then,” he says, meaning, of course, the complete opposite.
“You should come!” Mandy exclaims suddenly. “You and Mickey have to meet. I can’t believe you guys haven’t by now.”
Ian wants to jump on the offer immediately, but holds himself in check. “Are you sure?” he forces himself to say. “I don’t want to intrude or anything.”
“Ian, you won’t be intruding, you’re practically family anyways,” Mandy says, and relief rushes over Ian, relief that he’s finally back where he belongs with his best friend. “Besides, you’re chill. Mickey will like you.”
Oh, you have no idea, Ian thinks, touching the hickey on his neck lightly. “I’ll see if I can make it tonight,” he says. “With my work load—”
“Let’s just change it, then. What day is good for you?”
What did Mickey say? It was a Saturday. Today was Friday. “Is tomorrow night okay?” Ian says quickly. “I’m good for dinner then.”
“That’s perfect! I’ll let Mickey know.”
“Okay,” Ian says, excitement already starting to run through his veins. “Hey,” Ian says suddenly. “Mandy, wait.”
“What is it?”
Ian thinks about coffee cups and lighter hair and Karen. “I missed you,” he tells her.
“I missed you too,” she says immediately. She sighs. “Sorry I’ve been so distant lately, I’ve just had so much work.”
“It’s okay, I’ve been swamped too. But I’ll see you at the dinner tomorrow?”
“Yes! I can’t wait. Bye, Ian.”
Ian wishes her well and hangs up. Then he finds his bag by the door and searches inside of it for a marker and his agenda.
Ian double- and triple-checks, counting out every day out loud and then doing some math in the back of the book, making sure not to count New Years Day, and when he’s sure the number is correct, he writes it down on the back of his hand.
Only eighty-four more days until New Years Eve.