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Mickey opened a dam by kissing Ian that first time in the van; he was unaware of how much water would overflow with that one simple press of lips. Getting shot in the ass was a warning—a clear sign from the universe not to fucking try to do it again—but fuck if he could stop Ian from finishing what Mickey himself had started. It took only a few days for Ian to do what Mickey had encouraged him enough to achieve.
It took until the next time they saw each other.
They were in the Kash 'n Grab, inching for their usual break, and Ian seemed strange. His eyes held a sort of primal stare that locked Mickey in and forbade him from escaping. Ian held his gaze, all while locking the door insinuatingly, nodding towards the freezer. Mickey understood, but hesitated, confident that this whole thing wouldn’t be just another one of their average hookups. Ian and Mickey had never been average, but their normal was fucking, pants around their ankles, barely any unnecessary touches, and no kissing.
Mickey stupidly erased that important fucking boundary, and all it took to do so was a simple challenge in Ian’s voice; he’s not afraid to kiss me. And fuck Ian for making everything infuriatingly complicated.
Mickey wasn’t afraid of anything—if he could handle juvie and drug runs, he could handle kissing Ian fucking Gallagher, even if he was a dude. Mickey never backed down from a challenge; he was a Milkovich, taking a challenge head-on was in his blood. And it wouldn’t even mean anything. It’s just lips pressing together. Mickey had kissed many girls in his eighteen years of life, and they never meant shit to him. He wasn’t even fucking gay. He enjoyed having something up his ass, but that didn’t mean he liked Ian. Ian just had a good dick.
Ian wasn’t a bad guy and maybe Mickey did like hanging out with him, but romantic stuff? Mickey wasn’t a fag like Ian, he didn’t have feelings for him and all that bullshit.
When he kissed him—even though he said it meant nothing; even if he wanted to keep pretending that he hadn’t daydreamed about Ian touching his mouth to his own more times than he could count—he couldn’t. Not anymore, at least. The kiss was quick. Barely even there. And yet, it lingered. It lingered inside Mickey’s mind days after as he lay on his stomach, trying to relieve the pain from the bullet wound on his ass cheek. He kept replaying the moment in his head; the fucking feeling that followed it.
Mickey never felt fucking butterflies because he wasn’t a fucking teenaged girl, but the warmth in the pit of his stomach suggested otherwise. It only appeared when he was around Ian—it was simply there these past years he had known Gallagher, and Mickey wasn’t really used to it; it made him icky and nervous. Now, the warmth spread from his abdomen towards other parts of his body, and not just his dick. The feeling encompassed his chest, his legs, his hands; it left him tingling all over, and there was a dull ache in his ribcage as if somebody had taken his heart in their hand and squeezed it.
Mickey didn’t know if he should blame Gallagher for it—would that be admitting something to himself and to Ian? He didn’t care, especially not now when the guy in question was coming up behind him in the cold room they always used as a hookup spot in the store. Not when Ian had a dangerous look in his eyes, a glint that Mickey couldn't place.
Ian was perfect; he always had been, much to Mickey’s chagrin, who just wanted to dub him as annoyingly clingy and get rid of his aggravating presence. But he couldn’t; not when Ian smiled and flashed his white teeth. Not when his freckles multiplied in the summer glow. And definitely not when he grew from a cute kid with dark red bangs to the type of guy who made Mickey’s dick hard with just the mental image of his chiseled body. Mickey could also lie and say Ian’s dimples didn’t turn him on, and that his stupid laugh didn’t churn his insides. That he didn’t feel nauseous in the best and worst ways when Ian got closer.
That Ian wasn’t getting closer in every single way possible.
The ginger was here now in Mickey’s space. Green eyes dark with lust and confidence, and suddenly, Mickey didn’t have a clue what to do. Ian was in charge, with his pale hands caressing Mickey’s face, fingertips passing over his lips. The action stunned Mickey, and he was sure his eyes were wide and wild, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t force himself to stop Ian; to tell him the usual, no, I’m not what you think I am, I don’t like you. Get the fuck off me.
Ian was intoxicating; he was like a drug Mickey once tried, and now couldn’t stop taking. Ian gave him a high like Mickey had never experienced. He made him hide his smiles and laughter; he made him dream, and for the first time in years, the dreams weren’t nightmares. Ian made him feel happy.
He was leaning in now. Mickey didn’t want to stop him. He had drawn a line they shouldn’t’ve crossed, that he said Ian shouldn’t cross. But didn’t Mickey completely erase that with the van thing?
Ian was kissing him now, his soft lips pressing against Mickey’s, agonizingly slow. They were just touching. One moment there, so soft, and the next, gone. Ian, pulling away, forced Mickey to meet his eyes as his insides twisted into tight knots, unrelenting. There was a whole fucking swarm of bees in his stomach and they were stinging him, and fuck, Ian’s eyes were so shiny.
His eyes were closing again as Ian dipped his head. It was different now; Ian wasn’t just letting their conjoined mouths rest—he was moving his soft lips. They were kissing, and Ian was gripping Mickey’s head, thumb caressing his cheek, and Mickey let himself get kissed because it felt so good. And fuck, not even sex was this amazing.
This wasn’t raw lust and passion. This wasn’t what Ian and Mickey were, fuck-buddies, border-lining friends.
This was a lover’s kiss, and Mickey would never admit how good it felt. How his entire body seemed to boil from the heat, even if they were in a goddamn cooler. Mickey couldn’t even stop to wonder if he was doing this right; hadn’t he been told by many girls that he was a terrible kisser? Good fuck, shitty kisser. He stopped kissing girls during sex after that, but was he doing good now? Was Ian… he shouldn’t be thinking that, not when Ian was slipping his tongue past Mickey’s parted lips, after he came up to gasp for air.
He didn’t even need air right now. He needed Ian, and there was no doubt in his mind anymore. Not a single one as he positioned himself better, and gripped Ian’s face and Ian’s red locks, tugging at them.
This feeling; their tongues meeting and setting Mickey on fire, making the swarm of bees become wasps and spread from his stomach to his chest, was indescribable. Blood shot straight down to his dick. And there was something about kissing Ian, about the way he bit his lower lip with his teeth, pulling on it. About the way he dug his hands into Mickey’s sides, pressing him impossibly closer, that made Mickey feel like there was nothing else in this world but Ian.
Ian, who strolled into his life with nothing but a fucking tire iron.
Ian, who was his perfect match. The top to his fucking bottom.
Ian, who had somehow become his best fucking friend.
Ian, who was kissing him like Mickey was the only person in the entire universe.
Breathless, panting, they pulled apart. Ian seemed like he was barely standing upright, and Mickey understood. His knees were wobbly, and he could barely hold himself straight; would probably topple over if it wasn’t for Ian, holding him by his waist. His lips were red and swollen, and he was looking at Mickey with his eyes swimming with lust and maybe something more. He looked so hot.
And then Ian smiled his wonderful smile, and Mickey couldn’t stop himself. This was when he fucking surrendered because there was no way he could fight the urge anymore.
It was the moment he admitted to himself that Ian Gallagher had crept his way inside of Mickey, both literally and figuratively, and it would be impossible to cast him out now. Not when he finally knew what it felt like to kiss him. To be kissed by him.
Mickey was fucking done for.
He knew it as he pressed forward to kiss Ian chastely on the lips again. He couldn’t stop himself; this wasn’t him. He didn’t kiss guys. He wasn’t fucking gay.
But this was Ian, and Ian was so fucking beautiful with his pale skin, his emerald green eyes, and his fucking freckles, and, oh God, his lips. His fucking lips.
How could Mickey not fall in...
No.
No.
Ian kissed him again, and Mickey lost his trail of thought.
“See,” He started as they pulled apart, again. “You should’ve let me kiss you a long time ago.”
And Mickey was so fucking lucky because he remembered to scoff and not just stare at Ian like a love-struck idiot. “Dream on, this wasn’t that good.”
Liar. Liar. Liar.
“Oh?” Ian didn’t seem too deterred, but he was still leery. “Am I doing something wrong?”
Mickey didn’t know how to reply. Of course he wasn’t, and Ian didn’t need to be worried, so Mickey replied the only way he knew how.
He grinned teasingly, “Maybe you should try again, and see if it works better.”
Ian smiled that fucking gorgeous, amazing smile, and kissed Mickey. He kissed him and Mickey felt so high that he didn’t think any drug could ever replicate what he was feeling now. The bliss he had never felt, not even in the best of orgasms Ian had given him. This right here; this was better than all the best times in his life combined, and it scared Mickey. It scared him so much.
There was no coming back from this. But Mickey didn’t want to come back; he had jumped off of a fucking cliff the first time Ian Gallagher told one of his stupid puns and made Mickey want to laugh at how adorable he was.
He knew he was fucked then. And he knew he was fucked now.
“Better?” Ian’s breath fanned Mickey’s face.
“Maybe.”
And they didn’t stop kissing. Not when they left for the abandoned buildings; Ian didn’t waste time pushing Mickey down onto the hot pavement and slipping his tongue into Mickey’s mouth, effectively lighting him on fire. Mickey was hotter than the blazing sun burning their backs through their thin summer clothes.
They didn’t stop kissing the next day, either. Ian was smart; he didn’t greet Mickey with a kiss in the middle of the street, but he pushed him against the wall the moment they were alone and out of sight, clasping their mouths together as if Mickey was the air he needed to breathe.
And Mickey let him.
He let him do whatever he wanted because there was no fight left in him—no resignation. No hope to push Ian away anymore.
There was nobody out there like Ian Gallagher. And Ian Gallagher belonged to him; Mickey knew it in the way he pushed forward to meet every kiss and every thrust of his tongue inside his mouth Ian sent his way.
He would never get kissed like this by anyone else, ever again.
Mickey was aware, even then, that he would kiss Ian Gallagher for the rest of his fucking damned life, no matter how short it was.
It sealed his fate for fucking good and there was no going back.