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"How's the beer?"
Mickey frowns and shrugs, which, coming from him, is nothing short of a grin and two thumbs up. Ian smiles, watching him with eyes that give too much away. He doesn't care. This boy beside him was born broken, and tonight he's been thrown into the sky with shattered wings and he keeps looking at Ian like he's asking if he can fly. So yes, Ian's looking right back at him with everything he's got.
They're in the safest place Ian knows, downtown Chicago with a bunch of well-educated, perfectly manicured, eloquent and sweet-hearted gay men, but Mickey looks around like he's scared for his life. These people dare to be who he will never be, which should break Ian's heart a little, but as the night goes on and he frowns and shrugs and stands quietly and doesn't leave, Ian just loves him too much to break.
While men talk and laugh and drink and flirt around them, it becomes clear to Ian that Mickey doesn't want to talk. He's not at this party to have fun. He's not here to pick a fight. He's not even here to get laid. As they sit side-by-side on the couch, holding their beers and not talking, Ian realizes that Mickey’s only here to be with him, and he lowers his head and laughs.
“What the fuck you laughing at?” Mickey snaps.
“Nothing,” Ian smiles. “You wanna check out the view?”
“Of what?”
“The city.”
“I’ve seen it.”
Ian gives him a look, his smile contending with Mickey’s scowl, and doesn’t look away until he wins.
“Whatever, fuck,” Mickey mutters, standing up and following Ian to the balcony, adamantly refusing eye contact with anyone who looks at him and glaring at anyone who looks at Ian.
Ian’s seen people cross the street to avoid Mickey, a crowbar in his hands and a cigarette between smug lips. Afraid of nothing, he owns the ghetto, ruling through intimidation, making good on every threat, fucking you up first so you forget how easy it would be to kill him. (He is brave, but he's not very big.)
Ian’s only seen Mickey scared twice, and he doesn’t want to think about either of those times. Not a goddamn day goes by that he doesn't think about those fists and the blood on their faces and the hate in that man's eyes. Not a day goes by that he doesn't think that the words I do sound a lot like fuck you when Mickey Milkovich says them. But tonight he doesn't think about those days.
Because tonight is the third time Ian's ever seen him scared, and he loves him for it. This is a good kind of scared. The kind that means something, the kind that might make him what he's never dared to be. Ian's never seen him in starlight like this before.
Mickey's lighting a smoke, jittery and defiant.
"Having fun?" Ian asks.
"Yeah, I fucking love listening to a bunch of knob gobblers talk about wine squeezed from the teats of midgets in France or whatever the fuck they were blabbing about for forty-five fuckin minutes."
"Florence," Ian laughs.
"Oh, Florence, fucking excuse me."
"It's good, though, right?" Ian asks, and he knows Mickey's body well enough to know never to touch him first. "This?"
Mickey's eyebrows go up as he looks off to the side. He doesn't know how to respond to shit like that. No one taught him the words that Ian Gallagher deserves.
Ian is the third oldest of six kids. He's quick with hugs and kisses and I love yous, but he's also used to waiting his turn. He hopes that someday Mickey will understand he is safe with him. He would never take him somewhere that would hurt him. He doesn't do that to the people he loves.
"Hey, if you wanna get going, we can--"
"Just give me a fucking second, will you?" Mickey snaps, and Ian does, leaning against the balcony railing as Mickey runs his hands through his hair.
Ian won't touch him but he wants to because he knows the look on his face. He knows he's thinking about what his dad would do if he walked through the door and found him here. He knows what he'd do to every man in there and he knows he'd probably kill Ian this time and he’d make Mickey watch him die. He's been scared shitless of Terry Milkovich his entire life, but it's worse now because the one thing that finally makes him want to fucking live is the one thing his father will kill him for. Mickey's life is not an easy one, or even a good one, and Ian just wants to touch his face.
"You're safe here," Ian promises softly, and Mickey glares at him like what the fuck, of course he's fucking safe here; what the fuck would he be scared of a bunch of queers for? Ian holds the glare and smiles gently and then Mickey just looks scared and that's even worse. Ian can't help it; he reaches a hand out, but Mickey slaps it away and Ian stands his ground. There will come a fucking day when they don't have to fucking do this but not yet, not yet when Mickey's still so goddamn scared of who the fuck he is.
"No one cares, Mick," Ian tells him. "You're okay."
Mickey's eyes flick to the glass door, looking at the men inside. No one's looking back. There's a couple kissing on the couch, right where they had been sitting just a moment ago. He turns back to Ian but doesn't quite look at him, doesn't have to, because his lips know him by heart.
They make out against the railing, hands under each other's shirts and at the backs of their heads and necks, the cold Chicago night air making them press closer. Mickey holds Ian's face in his hands, and Ian hopes his kiss feels like all the good things Mickey's never had, like all the places he's never been, like it could all be theirs if they just keep kissing like this, high above the city, far from the ghetto and the pavement they've been ground into, unashamed and unabashed. They kiss, tongues tangling, lips bruising, desperation climbing, and goddammit, Ian hopes it feels like hope to Mickey, too.
They stop when the wind whips them too cold to go on and Mickey even lets Ian put his arms around him for a second before he pushes away and lights another cigarette. He looks back out at the city lights, catching a glimpse of Ian and shaking his head. Fucking kid never stops smiling. Mickey bites his lip to keep from doing the same.
"It's fucking freezing," Ian says, teeth chattering.
"Go back inside, then," Mickey snaps. Mickey snaps everything but doesn't always mean to, especially now.
"You can't smoke inside," Ian replies, as if that's all he needs to say to explain why he won't go inside yet.
Without a word, Mickey passes the cigarette over and Ian takes a drag while draping an arm over his shoulder. Mickey tenses, but it's only for a second before he relaxes, and goddamn if he doesn't lean his body into Ian's, burrowing in a way that only Mickey can.
"Yeah, it's good," Mickey mutters.
"What is?"
"This."
+
Ian laughs as Mickey's head bows, chin touching his chest, and he slips the beer bottle from his hand before he can spill it all over himself. They're back on the couch and Ian's arm is around Mickey's shoulders. "Never thought I'd see Mickey Milkovich fall asleep at a party," he chuckles.
"Goddamn midgets," Mickey snaps, eyes wide open and alert again.
"...Were you dreaming about midgets?"
"Fucking yes."
"You were asleep for two seconds."
"Well it sure didn't fucking feel like two seconds."
Ian puts a hand on Mickey's leg, his thumb rubbing circles around his kneecap, and Mickey doesn't pull away. He lets out a shaky breath, choking down his need for fight or flight, and stays. He turns his head so that his forehead is inches from the side of Ian's face, and he feels safe. Ian is shelter; Ian is homefree.
"It's late," Ian says, completely still, afraid to scare him away.
"How late?"
"After three."
"Jesus Christ," Mickey mutters. "These homos know how to party. They're still going strong."
Ian smirks at the irony. Yes, sweetheart, these homos are still going strong, while you're falling asleep in my arms. "Do you want to split a cab?"
"Can I crash at your place?" Mickey snaps, doesn't mean to ask, doesn't mean to snap.
“Uh.” Ian shrugs. “Yeah, sure.” He moves his hand up Mickey’s leg. “Or we could crash here?”
"Here?"
"Yeah, why not?"
"I don't wanna wake up and find myself in a fucking orgy with a bunch of dudes, that's why not."
"Mick, that's not a thing that happens."
"Fucking orgies happen, Gallagher."
"Well, I promise you won't wake up in an orgy tonight."
"Better fuckin not."
Ian grins. "Come on. Let's go find somewhere to sleep where there's no gay orgies."
"You think you're fucking funny but you're not."
"Yeah but you are," Ian laughs, especially when Mickey looks one-hundred percent affronted, and stands up from the couch. Mickey follows, in full-blown bitch-face mode. "Hey Brian," he calls, and the guy who owns this ritzy fucking place turns with that stupid smile on his face and Mickey just scowls harder. "Mind if we borrow the hide-a-bed?"
"Of course not!" Brian says, delighted that they're still here and want to stay the night. "Just let me get some sheets." He smiles at them knowingly before rushing off down the hall.
"How'd you know there's a fucking hide-a-bed?" Mickey asks. "Isn't it fucking hidden?"
"I've slept on it."
"Oh, you've slept on it."
Ian doesn't fight the smirk that Mickey's jealousy always gets out of him. They don't say a word to each other while they wait for Brian's return, and they don't say a word while he pulls the bed out for them and spreads the sheets over it, tucking in the corners and arranging the pillows while yammering about craft beers from Oregon and how next time they came over he was going to make Mickey try it and he was going to love it. Ian keeps on smirking and Mickey keeps on scowling.
“There you go,” Brian says, dropping a clandestine wink at Ian before he adds, “We’ll try to keep it down if you do.”
Mickey’s jaw drops and he looks around, chest puffing out like he thinks he should start a fight but Ian just thanks Brian and gently pushes Mickey towards the bed.
“Go to sleep,” he mutters, but Mickey waits until Brian leaves before he sits down on the bed beside Ian. Ian nudges him. “Take off your shoes.”
They set their shoes on the floor neatly and Ian’s never seen Mickey take such care. He’s nervous. “Night,” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible before he flops down on the bed, like this is no big deal, so Mickey knows he has no reason to run away.
Ian closes his eyes but he can feel Mickey gently easing his body down beside him. They have their own pillows but Ian knows when he lays his head down. He can hear the sound of denim on cotton sheets and knows that Mickey’s curling up on his side. He can feel the warmth of Mickey’s breath on his face and knows he’s turned towards him instead of away. Even with his eyes closed, he knows every move Mickey makes -- until Mickey’s kissing him.
Ian doesn’t open his eyes, in fact squeezes them shut tighter, and opens his mouth and kisses him back, hand on his neck, thumb on his jawline, crotch pressed against his. Mickey makes a sound deep in his throat and slides his hands around from Ian’s hips to his ass, pulling him even closer to his body, and they make out on the bed for what feels like all the world to see. He kisses him so hard and pulls him so tight that Ian thinks he’s trying to pull him on top of him, but then he stops as quickly as he started.
“Night,” Mickey snaps, and when Ian finally opens his eyes, he sees that Mickey’s are now closed.
He falls asleep with a smile on his face.
+
The apartment is all windows and the early morning sun pouring in from every angle makes it impossible to sleep in. But when Ian wakes up and finds Mickey still asleep with his hand wrapped around his arm, he closes his eyes again and doesn’t move an inch. He’s keeping Mickey safe.
Mickey rips his hand away when Brian wakes him up, and Ian can feel his body swing around in fear.
“Whoa, whoa, easy, killer,” Brian laughs, and Ian feels a pang of sadness and protectiveness. Brian and Mickey are from two different worlds. Brian doesn’t know the kind of fear Mickey lives with from the moment he wakes up in the morning. “I’m taking breakfast orders. Pancakes, eggs, or French toast?”
“Fuck,” Mickey breathes, angry and annoyed because he was scared. “Eggs.”
“And what do you think he’ll want?” Brian asks, unfazed by how startled Mickey is.
“The fuck should I know, man?” Mickey snaps. “I’m not his keeper.”
“Right,” Brian says, becoming tentative. “I didn’t mean to assume…” Neither says anything for a moment, and then Brian tries again. “So did you guys just meet last night, or are you together?”
Ian waits for Mickey’s answer. He expects the worst, but he’s not sure what the worst would be: a laugh or a lie.
“Together,” Mickey says, gentle and afraid, and Ian’s breath catches in his chest. That was the very last thing he’d expected to hear.
“Cool,” Brian says, and Ian hopes to God Mickey’s fucking listening, that he understands it’s okay, that there is a world out there for them and they’re here; this is it. “You’re a lucky dude.”
Mickey says nothing and Ian thinks so am I and continues to pretend to sleep and guesses by the weight shift that Mickey is sitting at the edge of the bed, silently protecting him in his own way. Someday, Ian thinks, he’ll see to it that Mickey can lay his guard down and just sleep, safe and sound.
“Here you go,” Brian chirps ten minutes later, and Ian hears Mickey grunt an acknowledgement that is not quite a thank you. He listens as Brian walks away, off to collect the next breakfast order.
Mickey smacks him on the shoulder. “Eggs, motherfucker,” he snaps.
Ian sits up, taking the plate of eggs from Mickey’s outstretched hand. He makes a show of stretching and wiping sleep from his eyes. They sit in silence and eat their breakfasts, Ian chewing with a smile on his face and Mickey frowning with every ounce of machismo that he can muster.
“Eat your gooseberries,” Ian says, grinning because he knows the reaction he’s going to get.
“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snaps, and the gentle, scared boy he’d heard with his eyes closed is gone, replaced by the boy he loves with all his fucking heart.
Ian snatches a gooseberry from Mickey’s plate and pops it in his mouth with a shit-eating grin. “Wanna crash at my place tonight?”
“Yeah, fuck, whatever,” Mickey grumbles, eyebrows arched and angry and indignant as he barks, “I didn’t say you could have my fucking gooseberries, you piece of shit.”
Ian laughs, wholeheartedly delighted. “Mmm, gooseberries,” he giggles, because Ian Gallagher is a goddamn brat.
“Fuck you,” Mickey says as he elbows him, and Ian swears he sees him smile.
They bicker all the way through breakfast, and when they leave, they leave together.