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Ian knew he wasn’t the most organized person around. He had grown up in a house where you grabbed whatever you wanted to use and hid whatever you wanted to keep, and it was hard habit to break.
So if he sometimes left his clothes on the floor, forgetting no one else would pick them up—if he sometimes left things in odd places, or ignored their dedicated spot—
Well, it was only to be expected.
But when his keys went missing for the third time in two days and were nowhere to be found—not on the hook, not in his pockets or under the bills on the table, and not behind the TV where he sometimes stashed them—he started to wonder what was going on.
He was disorganized; he wasn’t stupid.
“Mickey?” he called back into the apartment as he shuffled the papers on the table one more time, listening for the telltale jingle of his keyring. “Mickey, have you seen my keys?”
“Have I seen you what?” Mickey shouted back from the bedroom. “Your knees?”
“No, my—” Ian cut himself off as Mickey’s words registered, and rolled his eyes. “Really, Mickey?”
“What?” Mickey asked, coming around the corner into the kitchen with a poorly suppressed grin. “Thought maybe you were worried they were so pale I couldn’t see how weird and bony they are with those shorts.”
Ian sighed, looking down at his legs. They were admittedly pale under his khaki cargo shorts, which Mickey had been giving him shit for wearing ever since he brought them home.
“They’re not that bad,” he whined, kicking one leg out to look closer. “Just haven’t gotten much sun yet, with all the—”
He cut himself off again. It was getting to be a habit.
“Stop changing the subject,” he said with a light scowl. “I asked if you’d seen my keys?”
“Why, you lose ‘em again already?” Mickey asked, bypassing Ian to head for the fridge. He opened it, grabbed a bottle of beer, then frowned and put it back. Took out a water instead, and cracked the lid with a grimace.
“Still don’t know how you managed to stick ‘em in the freezer last time,” Mickey mused as he took a swig. He gagged as he swallowed, a show Ian was familiar with ever since he had asked Mickey to start cutting down on the booze and cigarettes for his health.
“I don’t know either,” Ian confessed, ignoring Mickey’s continued faces as he suffered through his bland drink. “But I already checked, and they aren’t there now.”
Mickey hummed. Took another swallow of water, then set the bottle on the counter behind him.
“You look in the laundry?” he asked, eyebrows quirked. “You tend to leave things in there a lot.”
“For the last time, Mickey,” Ian said, exasperated, “I’m sorry I misplaced my ring in the laundry basket.”
“Uh huh,” Mickey said, and Ian shook his head.
“I checked anyway,” he admitted. “All my pockets, and yours. They aren’t there.”
“Sucks,” Mickey quipped, and made to leave the room. “I bet I could find ‘em faster than you, the way you lose shit around here.”
Ian watched him, chewing on the inside of his lip. Before Mickey could disappear, he said, “You’re on.”
Mickey stopped. Turned slowly, eyes bright.
“Oh?” he said, and stepped back into the kitchen. “On for what?”
“You bet you could find my keys faster than me,” Ian said, letting Mickey close the distance between them until they stood toe to toe next to the kitchen table. “So prove it.”
Mickey laughed, low and breathless and obviously delighted.
“And what’s in it for me, huh?” he asked, tipping his head up to breathe the last word out against Ian’s chin. “Why should I risk my reputation for something that…” He blinked. “Simple?”
“Whatever you want,” Ian murmured in a similar tone, voice gone low. He wrapped a hand around Mickey’s hip, let his thumb stroke the skin where the other man’s shirt rode up.
“Anything?” Mickey questioned, and Ian nodded, the movement bringing his mouth closer to Mickey’s.
“Anything,” he confirmed, and closed his eyes.
“Check the top of the cabinet,” Mickey said plainly, and Ian’s eyes popped open again.
“What? Mickey, what do you—”
“That’s my guess,” Mickey said with a smirk, pulling out of Ian’s embrace. “If your keys are on top of the cabinet, I get anything I want.”
Ian rolled his eyes.
“Be serious, Mickey,” he said, turning to the line of cabinets on the opposite wall. He walked past Mickey to get to them, reached up and started to slide his hand along the top. “Why would my keys be up—”
His hand hit something cold, and metal, his fingers closing around a familiar shape.
“What the—” he muttered, and brought his hand down to stare point-blank at his key ring.
“Whooo!” Mickey hollered from the center of the kitchen. Ian looked up to see his husband standing there, arms up over his head in celebration. “Another fucking win for me!”
“Mickey…”
“In your face!” Mickey whooped, pointing an over-exuberant finger at Ian. “You dare challenge me?” he asked, doing some kind of weird moonwalk Ian had never seen before. “And in my own home?” He spun on the spot, nearly hit the table, and cackled when he came to a halt.
“Fuck, man,” he gasped out, staring at Ian’s gobsmacked expression. “You should see your fucking face.”
“Did you put my keys on top of the cabinets?” Ian asked instead of commenting on the spectacle. He tried to sound angry, but couldn’t help the way his lips were twitching.
“Me?” Mickey asked, hand pressed to his chest. “I can’t even see up there, what are you accusing me of?”
Ian laughed outright at the faux outrage.
“This is still payback for putting my ring through the wash last week, isn’t it?” he asked ruefully.
Mickey blinked at him, face full of innocence, then ruined it by speaking.
“Might be, bitch,” he said, and Ian laughed again.
“Alright, what do you want?” he asked, ready for an outrageous demand. What he got was Mickey licking his lips, grabbing his wallet off the table, and saying:
“I’m thinkin’ ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” Ian asked. “That’s it?”
“And you better get ready to pay up,” Mickey said, kicking out a chair to sit and put on his shoes. “I’m feelin’ fancy tonight, gonna need extra fucking fudge.”
Ian watched him struggle with his laces, smile never fading even as he cursed at it.
“You keep grinning like that,” Ian said, voice suddenly soft, “I’m liable to buy you the whole damn store.”
Mickey’s ears went red. His cheeks, too, Ian knew, even without seeing them.
“Shut up with that shit,” Mickey muttered, then stood and rushed to the front door before Ian could retort. “And don’t forget your wallet,” he called back over his shoulder as he opened the door. “It’s under the bathroom sink!”
Ian stared. Felt for his wallet in his pocket where it should have been, then laughed and went to fetch it.
Mickey deserved his ice cream.