Chapter Text
The first time Ian realizes something’s up with his new roommate is one week in.
They’ve barely gotten to know each other - a feat that’s not exactly easy when half of them stays in their bedroom all day - but that doesn’t stop Ian from giving it the old college try (ha).
Mickey’s not really one to talk his ear off and that’s fine. Ian’s got more than enough bullshit bopping around in his brain to steer the conversation. Which means he’s always the one picking it up on the off-chance their paths cross in the tiny apartment - when they meet unexpectedly in the hallway - when they’re switching out for the shower after a long day - when one of them stumbles into the kitchen while the other is absolutely destroying a cooking pot on the stove.
Ian tries them all. Gets a little grunt or a huff of a pity laugh or sometimes, if he’s really lucky, he’ll get a “Fuckin’ serious, Gallagher? Dumbest shit I ever heard…”
And here’s the thing. Mickey’s quiet - he is - but that doesn’t automatically mean he’s an asshole, right? Ian doesn’t wanna think so. He wants to think he has at least some kind of ability to judge a guy before accepting their existence and half the rent money into his life. That, and someone this attractive can’t be too horrible. Right? The good shit’s gotta transfer beyond the surface at least a little…right? He wasn’t just thinking with his dick when he chose Mickey Milkovich as his new roommate. …right?
…hello?
…please?
And then it happens.
It’s on one of those path-crossers. One of those rare instances where Ian’s walking into the kitchen just as Mickey’s walking out, the telltale aroma of burnt meat left in his wake and the pan that’s soaking under a heap of bubbles in the sink.
It’s when Ian’s eyes snag on the counter just next to it - the shiny black case left forgotten in the dim kitchen lighting.
Mickey’s phone.
He picks it up without thinking. Brings it over without thinking. Says it, without thinking, because he’s a decent human being and it’s something a decent human being would do.
“Hey - your phone, man.” And he’s got just enough time to make out the symbol on the back of the case - blood red and scratching a part of his brain just enough to register, but only very vaguely - “Star Wars, huh?” - before he’s under attack. Before Mickey is stomping forward, snatching his phone out of Ian’s hand with a kind of sharp determination that makes Ian honest-to-god flinch.
Because Jesus. Alright then.
Asshole behavior.
Mickey stomps out of the kitchen without so much as a word, as silent as he was from the start. But his shoulders have tensed up around him. Drawn him in. Locked him up with a kind of determination for privacy that borders on downright secrecy as he shoves his phone into his front pocket.
“Yeah, no problem,” Ian calls out after him, as deadpan as he can manage when he’s got all this curiosity stirring deep in his gut. “Anytime…” And then, under his breath as he heads to the fridge and pulls it open with a clink of loose beer bottles: “Prick…”
Okay, so…
Something’s definitely on Mickey’s phone.
No one’s that high-strung about someone touching their phone unless there’s some serious shit on it.
Ian wonders if it’s anything good.
On Tuesday night, Ian’s getting back from a particularly irritating run-in with Frank when he sees the package in front of their door.
It’s small. Stocky. Kinda like when he had to order a new TV remote when he went on that sativa-induced organizing spree that went so well that he organized the remote straight out of existence.
Except he didn’t do that this time. That’s not what this is.
And he’s pushing his way through the door when he finally actually reads the re-routing sticker that’s been slapped next to the original.
It’s theirs. Their apartment. Obviously. But it’s been redirected from a P.O. box in…Ian squints at the handwritten letters…fucking California?
“You know anyone in San Francisco?”
He asks it as the door closes behind him. And if he wasn’t a very astute young man, Ian would miss the way Mickey’s eyes flick up into the empty space above his phone - clear momentary alarm - before settling back down to the screen.
“No,” he says.
Ian kicks his boots off. Gives Mickey a little up-down where he’s stuffed into the armchair by the TV. Is a very astute young man - Norma, his therapist's words, not his - so he doesn’t miss any of it.
Suspicious.
“Me neither.”
He gives the box a little shake, holding it up to his ear. But whatever’s inside must be packed in tightly, because he doesn’t get so much as a wiggle.
“Wrong address,” Mickey says from the arm chair, not looking up but shoulders doing that tense-y thing they were doing a few nights ago. “Shit happens all the time. I’ll drop it back off tonight.”
His posture may be giving him away but his tone? That uninterested, ‘I’d rather kill myself than talk about this right now’ gripe? It’s good. Real good.
Ian’s better.
“Or we could open it.”
That gets him. That gets those eyes to flick up and lock onto Ian, heavy-lidded and annoyed but clearly something else flitting around in there. “Fuckin’ seriously…”
“Yeah, why not.” It’s not a question. Ian’s not asking. And holy shit - the little thrill that surges in him from the undivided attention as he turns the box over in his hands - it’s surprisingly addicting. “It’s addressed to us, right? Could be somethin’ good in here.”
But Mickey’s done playing. Done entertaining…whatever it is Ian’s trying to get out of him, even if he doesn’t look like he’s caught on yet. Because he’s swiping out of something on his phone, stuffing it into his pocket, and then he’s standing with a huff, like there’s nothing in the world that’s more annoying than closing the few feet between himself and one Ian Gallagher and oh, the way he snatches the package out of Ian’s hand - just like he did with his phone–
“Gimme that-”
But Ian snatches it back. “Hey.” Fixes him with an irritated look because Jesus, does this guy ever do anything calmly? “You never learn about using Nice Hands in kindergarten?”
Mickey scowls. Insulted. “Fuck your Nice Hands.”
But Ian’s not moving.
Ian waits, brows raised in expectation as his roommate slowly goes through every stage of dawning realization that this is actually happening. This is a thing. Ian is one hundred percent standing here, waiting for him to take it nicely.
It’s entertaining.
Just really, really good.
Why hasn’t he done this sooner?
Mickey’s frown is reaching Code-Red status. But then, just as Ian thinks he’s officially pushed his luck, his hand reaches out - slow, careful fingers with FUCK inked across them calmly gripping the box, and then taking it when Ian finally decides it’s time to let go.
Ian’s cheek hurts from where his half-smile has pulled. “See? You can be nice.”
It gets him an eye roll - a tongue click, Mickey turning and stalking toward his room with an unimpressed, “Fuck you…”
He doesn’t see him the rest of the night.
Ian cools it a little after that.
As much as he needs to know what the fuck his roommate is hiding, there’s an even bigger part of him that needs said roommate to stick around and foot half the rent and utilities. That’s not gonna happen if Ian’s all up in his shit. Especially when Mickey’s trying so consistently to keep him out of his shit.
So he cools it.
For a while.
A long while, actually.
Like, a few months - a feat that fucking floors Ian given his obsessive need to be nosy and know everyone’s business. But again: Mickey’s got the other half of their rent. Again: Mickey’s got the other half of utilities. Again: Mickey’s got these really ridiculous eyes that keep Ian from pushing too much, for fear that if he pushes too far, they’ll never lock onto him with one of those classic irritated blinks ever again.
He doesn’t know what would be worse, that, or having to go back to fronting the bills for this place on his own.
So he cools it.
For months.
For fucking months, he’s a good person and minds his own business.
He leaves Mickey alone to type away on his phone like a maniac. Leaves Mickey alone to hide away in his room for long periods of time. Leaves Mickey alone to do whatever the fuck it is he’s doing until Ian finally uses up that very last drop of self-control and then it’s all over.
He’s cracking.
He’s caving, attention everywhere but the show flickering on TV because Mickey’s across the room in the arm chair and he’s fucking typing away. Eyebrows arching. Bottom lip snagged between his teeth in concentration. Eyes rolling after they scan over something on the screen and Ian is fucking dying to know. He has to. He’s pretty sure he’s gonna implode or spontaneously combust or worse, fucking ask him about it himself.
That’d end things real fuckin’ quick.
That’s something he’s gotta avoid at all costs.
Something he’s gotta fight, but is on the very fucking tip on his tongue all the same, his mouth opening for one horrifying moment and then it happens. Reprieve. An angel’s hand reaching down from the heavens to fuck something up on the stove, the pasta water Mickey left on the burner bubbling over and splashing into a hissy mess that they can hear and–
“Fuck–”
He’s up and out of the room in a flash.
Leaves Ian alone.
In the silence.
In the stillness.
And slowly, very slowly, Ian’s vision begins to tunnel, everything else hazing out as his gaze lands on the lit screen of Mickey’s phone on the seat of the arm chair.
Oh fuck.
In the kitchen, Mickey hisses something bit off and nasty, clearly occupied with the mess he and the angel from heaven have created for this opportunity.
Ian’s not gonna waste it. It makes him nosy and invasive and probably not a very good person, but if God’s gonna send someone down to give him this chance then how is he supposed to let it slip through his fingers?
He can’t.
He won’t.
He moves, in quiet footfalls that carry him over to the arm chair - carry him to the lit up screen - carry him to the answers he’s been chasing and not-chasing all this time, Mickey’s phone case still warm as he picks it up and sneaks a peek without a sound.
His eyes scan - hungrily - brow fixing as he tries to make it make sense.
It’s a message box - grayed out with white text - a light blue cursor blinking beneath it in a field of black, unwritten space.
Ian reads over the words in the message but his brain is going too fast to let it sink in. The pressure. The high stakes of getting in and getting out before Mickey comes back from the stove and catches him snooping red-handed and–
Ian’s heart dips in his chest at the telltale sounds of just that, the floorboards in the kitchen creaking now that the pot has stopped boiling over.
He takes the screen in one more time.
Memorizes the words at the top, despite the confusion they bring.
And then he’s returning Mickey’s phone, taking great care to angle it the way he found it so as not to leave any trace of his prying.
He’s made it back onto the couch, legs stretched out and eyes on the TV like they should be when Mickey walks back in.
“Save it?”
The air swooshes next to him as Mickey crosses behind the couch, his steps much calmer now that he isn’t racing the clock either. “Uh-huh.”
Ian nods, but keeps his attention purposefully forward, eyes scanning but not seeing the images flashing across the TV while he wills his pulse to slow down.
No, he’s much more focused on the scoop of Mickey’s hand as he grabs his phone off the seat. The huff he lets out as he collapses back into his spot, returning to the message waiting for him like nothing ever happened.
Ian waits…for one more moment…just to make absolutely sure.
And as soon as Mickey’s thumbs start tapping away at his phone, he lets his breath out in a steady exhale, relief washing over him where he sinks back into the couch.
Holy shit. He got away with it.
With-…whatever the hell that was.
Ian clears his throat, checking with a quick peek across the room before snagging his own phone off the coffee table and into his lap.
He’s gotta investigate. Gotta deep-dive. He knew he was going to the second his eyes landed on Mickey’s phone screen and the interface registered in his brain.
Because it’s Tumblr. He recognizes it from when Debbie went off the deep-end on some girl-band shit when they were growing up. To think that Mickey - his roommate - his asshole of a space-sharer - is on Tumblr kinda throws Ian for a loop, he’s not gonna lie. The only thing he knows for sure is he’s not on there for girl-band shit.
And all it takes is one little search to find out the truth.
Ian slowly types the words he hurriedly memorized from the top of Mickey’s screen into the search bar, thumbs slowing as the intensity behind them hits him now while he sounds it out in his head.
hornygaythug
Wait a second.
Ian’s brow furrows as the search page loads…as the results fade in…as the blog in question shows up, right on top.
Wait a fucking second.
Mickey clears his throat across the room, the movement of him kicking a foot out to rest on the coffee table usually enough to break Ian’s concentration.
But right now, nothing can pull his attention away. Right now, he’s stuck. Tunnel-visioning again. Belly swirling with something warm and hooked and confusing as he hits the username, the blog opening full-screen on his phone and–
Ian’s lips part, his breath drawing to a stop in his lungs as he takes in the user photo at the top.
It’s like someone’s punched it out of him. Like someone’s holding his breath for ransom, refusing to give it up until he processes what his eyes are seeing - the shot, from the thighs down - black pants pushed down toward black combat boots - the pale fingers shoving them hooked around a pair of white, lacy panties that look even more delicate against the letters inked across the knuckles: F U C K
Ian breathes out, all of the air punched back into his lungs so harshly that his exhale fucking shudders with it, but–
Holy–
There’s no way.
Before he can stop himself, Ian’s eyes flick up to where Mickey is slouched into the chair across the room. They hook on his hands as they type away. The same hands in the photo. The same hands that are shoving his fucking pants down his thighs on the internet.
There is no fucking way.
Ian drops back to his phone despite his painful pulse and the intense, intense heat rising in his face because there has to be some mistake. Someone’s gotta be catfishing or something. However the fuck that works. There’s no way Mickey - his roommate - his asshole of a space-sharer - is on Tumblr under the name gayhornythug.
…right?
Something explodes on the TV, but Ian’s sucked right back into the blog - specifically the description right under the photo.
‘gay. 20s. not telling you fuckers where i live.’
Ian swallows.
Holy shit, this is Mickey.
Holy shit, Mickey’s gay.
Holy shit, Mickey’s a slut.
“What.”
Ian blinks, the heat pumping inside him like fucking crazy at the realization that he’s staring again. That Mickey’s staring back from across the room. That he’s looking at him like he always does - annoyed and impatient and just one more thing that Ian can never quite put his finger on but–
“The fuck you want, Gallagher.”
“I–…” Ian shakes his head, forcing an uninterested shrug and his gaze to settle where he’s casually swiping out of Tumblr. “Nothing. Thought I heard somethin’.”
He doesn’t dare look.
Doesn’t dare risk it, his face probably already narc-ing on him with how red his cursed Irish-ass gets.
“Think the noodles are ready…”
It’s solid enough to satisfy Mickey.
To get him to fuck off, frowning as he hits something on his phone and then stands to go deal with dinner.
The air swishes again as he passes by the back of the couch, and this time Ian feels it. Intensely. Like he’s being hit by a Mack Truck or some stupid shit like that, his senses heightened way too much from the sudden rush of adrenaline.
When Mickey disappears into the kitchen, Ian lets his phone drop, a hand coming up to rub at his eyes as he lets out the biggest breath known to mankind - his cheeks puffing around it.
A room away, plates clink together as they get pulled from the cupboard.
Back on the couch, Ian finishes emptying his lungs, his hands falling and gaze dropping to where he’s half-hard in his sweatpants.
“Holy fuck…”
Holy fuck, he just had to snoop.
He had to know.
Ian can’t look anymore. He can’t read anything else because it is a massive invasion of privacy and he shouldnt’ve even looked it up in the first place.
But that doesn’t stop his brain from thinking.
It doesn’t stop his mind from wandering - daydreaming, when left unchecked, about those hands and those thighs and how easy those panties would be to rip off in reality except he can’t do that.
He shouldn’t.
The last thing the two of them need is for Ian to be making up scenarios in his head about tearing Mickey’s underwear off when Mickey doesn’t even know Ian knows he’s gay - doesn’t know Ian knows about his blog - doesn’t know that he looked it up right in front of his fucking face and wants nothing more than to do it again because he can tell when Mickey’s doing it now.
He can tell when he’s on his blog. Answering shit. Talking to people and being slutty or whatever the fuck he does - Ian didn’t actually get a good peek, so maybe he could just look again really quick except he can’t do that.
He shouldn’t.
The last thing the two of them need is for Ian to look his blog up again, late at night so there’s no possible way Mickey can catch him. Because it’s creepy. It’s a massive invasion of privacy. Mickey is his roommate - his asshole of a space-sharer - pays half the rent and utilities and then fucks off to take pictures of himself to put on the internet and fuck, are they tasteful.
Just like his profile pic. Black pants. Black boots. An artful crop that keeps his face out of frame but his best foot forward and he has a motherfucking nipple ring. Mickey. His roommate. His asshole of a space-sharer who doesn’t know how to use his Nice Hands has a pierced nipple and Ian just has to swipe out of Tumblr immediately. Has to stop. Because he shouldn’t be here in the first place and he’s starting to realize that the buzzing he hears through the wall from Mickey’s room isn’t his buzz-clippers.
He has to stop.
Has to swipe out.
Has to turn his phone off with a hard-shut-down that feels like he’s choking the life out of it, just to get some peace.
He does it.
Cuts himself off.
But the peace doesn’t come until he does.
Ian cools it.
For a while.
Like, a long while actually, considering how he’s presented with Tumblr’s favorite horny gay thug every single day with no outlet to do anything about it.
He’s got about a month of not creeping under his belt when it all kinda comes crumbling down, but it’s not his fault. Not entirely.
He’s had a long day. An even longer night. Has enough beer in his system that he just knows Norma’s lying awake in bed with her Ian-sensors going off right now.
But he kinda needs it, the day’s stresses melting off of him and pooling into something warm and liquidy and thick.
Because Mickey keeps looking at him.
He can feel it, drifting over from the arm chair.
It’s always quick and doesn’t linger but it’s real fuckin’ heavy when it lands.
Ian realizes too late that the warm-liquid-thickness in his belly is absolutely just horniness, but by now he doesn’t wanna move. He’s comfortable on the couch, the TV flickering over the dark room.
And maybe it’s the beer and maybe it’s the horniness and maybe it’s the way Mickey’s eyes on him leaves him aching but before he knows it, his phone is in his hand, the black background of the blog familiar in a way that feels way too good too fast.
The picture he saw during his last moment of weakness is nothing more than a memory now, pushed far down the page by message after message after message.
Mickey’s answering asks over there. Thumbs tapping away. Beer bottle brought to his lips and then tipped back down as his eyes flit over to land on Ian’s face.
He can feel them.
Gets drunk on the feeling.
Fucking likes that shit, making sure not to meet it so it keeps happening for as long as possible.
Instead he keeps his eyes down, reading over the messages people are sending tonight.
They’re filthy. A little gross, if he’s gonna be honest, but he guesses the anonymity of it is kinda hot. And Mickey’s answers are infinitely sexier when he can hear how the words would sound coming out of his mouth.
you wanna come sit on this dick baby? reads the message.
you wanna send me a picture so i can see if it’s worth my time? is Mickey’s response, and Ian can feel it in his entire body. The attitude. The sass.
Mickey’s fucking bratty and it’s ruining Ian’s life.
do you like to be dominated? cause i wanna throw you down and make you beg for it.
It’s a new one. It comes after Mickey’s gaze settles over him from across the room for a beat too long, the spark it lights inside Ian making it too hard to not connect - to not read too deeply.
unless you're tall and built with a dick worth begging for then i don't think you can handle me tough guy
Ian’s eyes roll shut with the pulse of pleasure that works up his body from it, his brain already halfway through the thoughts before he can beat them away.
He’s tall.
He’s built.
He’s got a big dick, if he’s gonna be completely honest.
His eyes flick up, locking onto him across the room.
He could absolutely handle Mickey.
And maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the horniness or the way those eyes have left him aching, but Ian pushes. Caves. Scrolls to the link he wants and then starts typing, his question filling into the askbox like he’s not about to cross a very important line.
what kinda guys do you like
He sends it off without taking a second to look back. Without contemplating exactly how hard it’ll turn everything on its head.
Because he can’t. He shouldn’t. But he does.
And when Mickey’s answer comes in, published onto his page for everyone to see, it’s got Ian absolutely fucking melting.
tall guys it says. redheads especially.