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Mickey came to this frat party for one reason and one reason only: to sell at least an ounce of weed so that he could head back home and feed his family for the next two weeks.
This is why he feels extremely proud of himself for easily accruing three hundred bucks in the past hour. He’s been cruising the frat house, eagle eying every stumbling dude bro who looked remotely down for a huff and puff session, successfully skimping out every frat boy that looked like they lived right out of their parents’ pockets.
Hell, he should be ashamed of himself. He’s got three hundred dollars when an ounce would have gotten him half of that in the South Side.
But Mickey is a businessman. He saw an opportunity and he took it. He knew this party would have the richest white kids in town, and he’d been right. He inwardly congratulates himself as he walks through the upstairs hallway, only having a quarter of an ounce left on him. He’s saving that for a certain redhead.
As his thoughts drift back to Ian, questions about the fellow South Sider start to fill his mind quickly. He asks himself the same questions over and over again as he nears the staircase leading to the entrance of the house. As he walks down the steps, one big question surpasses all others: how the hell did Ian Gallagher, former South Side dweller, find himself on a North Side college campus? Not that the kid didn’t look smart enough, but when you’re from the South Side, ain’t no way in hell you’re getting an out without scamming or stealing it.
He curses himself for thinking so much about a boy he met just a few hours ago. Why the hell is he asking stupid fucking questions about a stupidly freckled redhead whose hand still feels intertwined with Mickey’s from all those hours ago? Fuck, he can still feel Ian’s hand sliding against his; a slow and soft friction that made him shiver as warm fingers curled around his.
What he hates most is that with every thought of Ian comes a wave of jitters in his gut. It’s fucking nauseating.
He nearly drowns in the feeling when his gaze meets Ian’s across the room when he’s halfway down the staircase. He almost trips and falls down the rest of the fucking steps when he sees the shithead smile dumbly like Mickey’s descending from heaven. Fuckin’ dork, Mickey thinks as he tries to composedly walk down the rest of the damned steps. Yeah, Ian’s definitely the only dork out of the two.
Mickey finds himself running his hands through his hair and looking down to see if his shirt is buttoned right as he walks toward Ian, hoping that the crowd of people between them is inhibiting Ian’s view of his flustered state. Yeah – wishful thinking.
Ian notices Mickey’s nervousness no matter how subtle the brunette is trying to be; no matter how many people are between them. The closer Mickey gets, the more Ian’s confidence levels burst through the roof and the more he wants to grab Mickey and run his hands through his black hair himself while snuggling the fucking shit out of him.
Of course, he also wouldn’t mind grinding against the bashful brunette on the dance floor, either. After all, parties do call for less snuggling and more gyrating.
“Way to fuck off on me,” Ian says simply when Mickey finally reaches him. He smiles teasingly and leans back against the bar, propping his elbows on the edge.
Mickey’s mouth hangs open, struck by disbelief at Ian’s nonchalance. He can’t help himself when he replies incredulously, “I fucked off on you? Right, Gallagher, like some other fuckhead classmate of yours didn’t come up to you and steal the show.”
Mickey doesn’t even realize how witless he sounds until after the words fly out of his mouth. He could have just fucking said he needed to sell his weed or else his family would starve. But he'd be lying if he tried to deny that he didn't feel sufficiently challenged when yet another one of Ian's admirers crossed them earlier in the night. The asshole had jumped on Ian, hugging him from behind, effectively interrupting their heated and drunken argument about who'd win a fight if it came down to Jean-Claude Van Damme versus Steven Seagal.
Mickey almost fucking knocked out the guy for being the second fucker who tried to get with Ian, until he saw how excited the redhead was to see him. Ian had turned and hugged his classmate with enthusiasm, babbling on about fucking missing each other and about classes and other stupid college shit.
Damn, did Mickey want to knock Admirer No. 2 out cold. But how many dickheads would he have to keep in line for the night before he realized that, shit, Ian Gallagher is a South Sider that got out. Why the fuck would he want to go back in, even if it was just for the night?
That was the moment when Mickey diffidently retreated from Ian's side at the bar and got down to business, sparing just one look back at Ian as he reached the front of the stairs only to realize the redhead had not noticed his absence whatsoever.
So, yeah, Mickey is pretty irked when Ian accuses him of fucking off, as if for the sake of just fucking off, and not because he felt his company was no longer welcome.
“You jealous, Mick?” Ian asks with an eyebrow raise and a devilish smile. Mickey's starting to think the redhead has some sort of uncontrollable muscle condition with the corner of his lips; he's smirking like he's won already, and Mickey doesn't even know what fucking game they're playing at.
Mickey huffs out a breath, unable to find words that would backpedal him out of this vulnerable situation.
"You don't have to worry about José, you know. We just go way back." Mickey's expression remains unimpressed.
"Besides, I already told him I came with someone," Ian says, looking intently into Mickey's uneasy blue eyes.
Mickey shifts, intrigued, but doesn't break eye contact. "But you didn't."
Ian's leer turns into a wide grin, and he goes in for the kill, "I know."
Mickey, in spite of himself, can't help but fall for the fucking charm. He bites his lip and turns away abashedly in an attempt to hide his grin. Looks like the two are still playing boyfriend and girlfriend here.
Ian catches Mickey falling, and he silently congratulates himself for managing to get this hard, rugged looking boy soft and replete.
They both let the music fill the moments of silence between them. It's not awkward or uncomfortable. It's a pleasant pause in conversation.
Finally, when Mickey feels like he's sufficiently controlled the frenzy of butterflies flying in his stomach, he turns back to Ian and decides to change the topic completely.
"So how the hell did you end up here anyway, Gallagher?" he asks as he gestures to their surroundings.
Ian's a bit put off by the change of conversation. "College, you mean?" Mickey nods. "It's a bit of a long story," Ian admits unsurely.
"Hit me, Gallagher. I've got all night."
Ian pauses, trying to find a way to make his story as short as possible.
"Well, I wanted to go to West Point for a while in my first few years of high school." Ian chuckles when Mickey raises his eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "Yeah, I did ROTC, piled up on courses, trained like crazy; the whole nine."
I ended up getting rejected. It was a bit of a bummer but my brother encouraged me to keep up the good work. I had good enough grades to score some scholarships, and my time at ROTC definitely helped me score some more. Even with all that, it wasn't enough to cover the whole cost of all of this," Ian finishes by mimicking Mickey's earlier gesture to their surroundings.
Mickey's definitely enthralled with the direction of the story. He asks encouragingly, "so what did end up covering it?"
Now it's Ian's turn to be vulnerable. He looks down at his shoes and bites the inside of his lip before deciding to spill it, "I used to dance."
Mickey laughs, drawing Ian's gaze. The redhead looks up in surprise at the guffawing brunette who says in between laughs, "what, fuckin' Billy Elliot over here?"
Ian can't help but laugh with him, but not because it sounds as ridiculous to him as it does to Mickey. It's because that's not anything close to the kind of dancing he used to do.
"No, I mean," Ian pauses, reassessing his angle, "I used to dance at clubs."
Mickey's smile drops. He carefully takes in the insecure expression on Ian's face as the taller boy looks for a reaction in Mickey's.
Ian's heart pounds as he waits for Mickey to bolt.
If anything, Mickey's sticking around.
The brunette's face remains unreadable until his earlier smile creeps up again. "I bet you look good on the dance floor," Mickey says simply, smiling wildly at the shy redhead.
Ian's insecurity has never burned away so fast. He feels a poised confidence build up again inside, threatening to burst out of his skin. He feels like saying, oh, Mickey, you don't even know, but he feels that it's best to show Mickey instead that his reckoning is not at all untrue.
The boys look at each other for many heated seconds before Ian pushes himself forward from the bar, running his hand down Mickey's arm in the process and stopping it at his hand, pulling him away from the bar.
Mickey's having none of that. He plants his feet and stops Ian's movements. The redhead looks back questioningly, and Mickey responds with a violent shake of the head. Ian doesn't let go on his hand; he idly runs his thumb over Mickey's wrist in silent encouragement. But the other boy remains adamant about his lack of movement.
"Oh, no, buddy," Mickey says, "I do not dance."
Ian doesn't have it in him to argue, because he'd rather show Mickey what he's missing out on. The party playlist shifts to the next song on queue, and Ian smiles as a familiar tune brings him back to his dancing days.
"Fine," Ian says as he walks backwards away from Mickey, bringing up his arms in surrender, "suit yourself. But don't come fretting to me afterwards because someone's grinding on my irresistible ass."
Mickey scoffs dubiously as Ian turns and walks onto the dance floor. He finds a spot where he's in perfect line of sight of Mickey and starts dancing, breaking out his sexiest moves so as to draw every percent of Mickey's attention.
And fuck if Mickey isn't drawn to every plane on Ian's body as he undulates to the song. He has to bite his lip to keep his shit together, to no avail; Ian's eyes are piercing and unmoving from Mickey's as he bounces and thrusts to every beat of the music. He imagines Ian dancing with minimal clothing, as he probably did in those clubs he used to work at. He imagines Ian on a platform high above everyone else, elevating Mickey too with every thrust of the hips. Jesus, Mickey is so fucked.
Turns out Ian was right about his irresistible ass, because some fuckhead on the dance floor somehow thinks the show is up for grabs. Mickey sees the kid move slowly towards the redhead, and Ian does nothing to stop him. Fucker, Mickey thinks to himself, because he knows full well that Ian's deliberately letting the kid put the moves on him. Mickey growls and shoves himself off the bar and soon he's behind Admirer No. 3 just as the asshole is reaching for Ian. He grabs No. 3 by the wrist and pulls him away with such force that the kid winces at the pain.
Mickey keeps his grip tight as he leans in close. "You go near him again, I'mma break every knuckle in your hand, all fourteen of 'em," he spits out as he shoves the guy's hand forward so hard that he stumbles back. No. 3 wastes no time getting the fuck out of their space.
Mickey is breathing heavily when he turns his gaze back to Ian, who has stopped dancing and is now chuckling with his arms crossed. He shakes his head at Mickey's uninhibited fervor.
"What? If I'm gonna play hand-holding boyfriend over here, I ain't holding back," Mickey says tersely over the music, as if playing scary boyfriend was the only reason he was being so territorial.
Ian's not buying it. He knows Mickey wants him, and fuck if he's not going to let him have it.
Mickey looks around uncomfortably at the foreign environment, knowing full well that Ian has lured him into a trap. Ian lets him acclimate, giving the brunette time to take in the grinding bodies and the thumping music. After a few seconds, Mickey's uneasy gaze falls on Ian, who just stands there, waiting.
He notices the anxiety in Mickey's expression evaporate almost as soon as the brunette looks at him. He peers back wantonly, like he's letting Mickey know that there's no one else in the room. Fuck, they might as well be alone.
Mickey relaxes as he returns the lascivious gaze. He shrugs slightly, because he doesn't know what to do on the dance floor, but Ian does. He shrugs as if to let Ian know that Mickey's going to let him take the reins now.
And take them he does.
Ian grabs Mickey by the arm and spins him around so that he settles flush against Ian's body. He sighs because Mickey's body fits perfectly against his; an observation he hopes remains true in other situations. The same song carries on as Ian grips Mickey by the hips and moves him along with the music. Mickey lets it all happen with no resistance; he probably wouldn't be able to resist if he tried. Worse yet, he doesn't even want to.
Mickey finds that dancing isn't as terrifying as he thought it'd be. Then again, Ian's the one that's really dancing. But as the song builds steam, Mickey finds himself moving on his own; his hands unconsciously moving to touch Ian's thighs behind him. Ian responds by letting go of Mickey's waist with one hand and grasping one of Mickey's, letting the brunette move their hands up and down to the beat of the music.
God, Mickey would have never guessed this is how he was going to spend his night. He closes his eyes and lets his head loll back against Ian's shoulder. Ian takes the opportunity to nuzzle the brunette's neck and breathe him in. He tries pushing it by baring his teeth and sliding them against the side of Mickey's neck, an action that elicits a low and embarrassing moan from the brunette.
There are about twenty seconds left to the song, but it may as well be hours because every touch, breath, thrust and grind seem to last forever.
They remain lost in each other until the song ends. When it finally does, they are sweaty and breathing hard, they smell like each other, and they are both half hard in their pants. Mickey swallows as he realizes what the fuck just happened in the past three minutes.
Fuck. He didn't come prepared for this at all.
Before Ian has time to do or say anything, Mickey pushes away from him and power walks off the dance floor, leaving Ian in a daze.
He watches Mickey walk away as an array of emotions and thoughts run through his mind. Should he go after him? Should he let him be?
Fuck it, he thinks to himself. He's pushed a lot tonight, but now it's time to shatter the whole damn wall down.
He finds Mickey in the kitchen, leaning on the wall of the hallway leading to the backdoor, gazing out into the spacious backyard where drunken partygoers are playing beer pong and making out in the grass.
Ian settles himself on the wall across from Mickey, sighing when Mickey doesn't make a move to acknowledge his presence.
Finally, Ian says, "what the fuck, Mickey?"
Mickey turns his head to find a concerned looking Ian, but doesn't respond. At least, not with words.
He pushes off the wall and slowly approaches Ian, who swallows at Mickey's sudden closeness. When he's practically flush against Ian, he looks down between them and runs his hand up Ian's arm.
After a while, the brunette looks up into green eyes and says succinctly, "I was right."
Ian's mouth hangs open but he can't seem to voice anything. Mickey knows he wants to ask what he means, so he answers Ian's silent question.
"You look damn good on the dance floor," he responds with a small smile.
If Mickey wasn't holding onto Ian's arm, he surely would have collapsed in response to the charm. Instead, he stares into blue eyes, waiting for Mickey's next move.
Turns out Ian didn't have to do anymore pushing for the night; Mickey's knocking down his damn wall all on his own.
He steps closer and places his hands on Ian's hips, and both boys can't help but look down at each others' lips. At long last, when the heat between them seeps into their skin and sets them into motion, Mickey lifts himself on the heels of his feet and plants his lips on Ian's.
The first brush of their lips is long and languid. Ian can't help but let out a short gasp at the contact as his hands find Mickey's neck. The brunette takes advantage of Ian's response, slipping his tongue inside the redhead's mouth.
They can't even bring themselves to give a fuck about the other people in the frat house kitchen. To be fair, the other kids are probably too drunk or too wrapped up in their own debauchery to notice them. Nothing is on their mind except each other, and the feel of their lips and bodies pressed together.
When they finally break away from each other, it's not by much. Ian runs his thumb on Mickey's jawline as the brunette keeps his grasp tight on Ian's hips. They gaze at each other for many heated moments until Mickey pulls away, much to Ian's dismay. He smiles, opens the backdoor, and walks into the night without looking back. He knows Ian will follow.
And follow he does.