Archive of Our Own

Ian doesn’t walk into the bookstore because he has any particular desire to read a book.

He’d been walking around the main street by his apartment for almost two hours now, and the bookstore had drawn his attention because it seemed crammed between an antique’s shop and a small coffee shop. Ian was tired from walking around the city, and he figured he could buy a book for his apartment. He always had more free time than he liked, and he always used to like to read.

The bookstore is called The Mighty Pen, which is declared above the door with a little ink and quill on the sign. Ian is hoping that the bookstore has some place he can sit and read, something that’s more quiet than the coffee shop probably is. No one approaches him, which Ian is slightly grateful for, and he manages to find a small, cushioned chair by the mysteries section. Ian collapses in the chair and fingers some of the spines of the books, reading over the titles and occasionally picking one out to read the summary.

The person who works here must have really not known that Ian came in at all, because he stumbles upon Ian by accident. Ian got hooked by a particular story about ten strangers invited to an island, and the guy comes over, carrying about five or six books in his arms. The guy sees Ian, curses, and drops all of the books.

At first Ian only watches in shock as the books tumble to the floor and the guy says, “Jesus, I did not know someone was in here.” Ian shrugs, giving him a small, sheepish smile, puts his book down, and picks up the two books that the shopworker doesn’t get.

“Sorry about it,” Ian says, putting his two books on top of the stack in the guy’s arms. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” the guy says, although his voice sounds annoyed. But then the corner of his mouth quirks and he says, “Besides, it only crushed my toes a bit. No harm done.”

“If you say so.”

The guy moves over to the section next to mysteries and places one of the books on the third shelf. When it’s obvious that he’s at work and isn’t going to say anymore, Ian picks up the book again and continues to read. The guy struggles a little putting the books on the shelves, because he has to pull out a book from the bottom of his stack without making them tip over again. It amuses Ian, the way he curses and huffs, and the guy notices, because he says, “Man, stop laughing at me.”

That makes Ian laugh out loud. “I’m sorry,” he says, as the guy slides the last book into place. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

The guy waves his hand in the air. “It’s fine. Trust me, I definitely would’ve laughed, too.”

Ian smiles at that, watching the guy over the top of his book for a moment, and returns his eyes to the page. He notices the guy hovering, so he lowers the book and says, “Did you need something?”

“Just looking at your book,” the shopkeeper says. Then, with a quirk of his eyebrow, “It’s a fantastic one. One of Christie’s best, in my opinion. And everyone’s opinion. I mean, literally—And Then There Were None was her best-selling novel. It has over one-hundred million sales.”

“Impressive.”

“It is,” the guy continues, and he seems amused by Ian’s less than energetic tone rather than offended. “It’s the world’s best selling mystery novel ever, and it’s one of the best-selling books of all time. For good reason.”  

“I’m enjoying it so far,” Ian says. “I mean, it’s a slow read, but very intriguing.”

There’s a small smile growing on the guy’s face, one Ian rather likes, and the guy takes a step closer to where Ian’s sitting. “I hope you enjoy the rest, then.” He points a finger at Ian. “But that doesn’t mean you can just sit in here, finish the book, and leave.”

Ian chuckles. “I’ll pay for it when I leave,” Ian tells the guy, and the guy nods, satisfied, and leaves Ian be.

Ian gets through the next two chapters before his growling stomach convinces him to leave, and the story is actually very interesting, so he takes it over to the counter. The guy is standing there, talking on the phone to someone, and he looks frustrated. His fingers are clutched in his dark hair, and it’s the first time Ian notices the tattoos. “You can’t just keep him whenever,” the guy is saying. “You’ve had him for ten years, and I only get him on the fucking weekends. You don’t just fucking take my weekends whenever you feel like it.” He turns slightly, notices Ian, and quickly says, “I have to go, but this conversation is not over.”

“If I interrupted anything—” Ian starts.

“You’re cool,” the guy cuts in. “I’m at work, anyways, I shouldn’t really be talking about—not when a customer is here.” He mouth presses into a grim line, and he points to the book in Ian’s hand. “You buying it?”

Ian hands the book over the counter. “I’m already dying to know the end.”

“It’ll surprise you,” the guy tells Ian, and while he’s scanning the book, he glances up at Ian. “I haven’t noticed you before. In the shop.”

Ian startles a bit, shoves his hands into his pockets. “I just moved here,” he says, licking his lips. “So I’m getting used to the area.”

“Sorry if the question sounded invasive,” the guy says, taking Ian’s change and exchanging it in the register. Ian’s eyes widen when he looks at it, because it’s massive—bulky, painted in a sparkling gold, and has ridiculous knobs that make the register look about fifty years old. “But the city isn’t huge, you know, and the people in this area come in here frequently. I’m used to regulars, and I just hadn’t noticed you before.” He hands Ian back the change and gives Ian the book. “Mickey,” he says, shoving the register drawer shut.

Ian smiles and says, “Ian.” He clutches the book tighter to his body, feeling warm and pleasant, glad to have made a friend here. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Mickey returns the sentiments, and right before Ian reaches the door, Mickey calls out, “You should come back, you know. To tell me how you like the ending of that book.”

Ian grins at that, gripping the doorknob, and tells him, “I definitely will.” Then he pushes the door open, turning back to go to the direction of his apartment. He’ll pick up something quick on the way home, maybe a burger and fries, and then he’ll go home, curl up with the book, and continue reading.

Ian walks back into the bookstore six days later. There’s a tall dark man at the counter, leaning against the counter with his hip and reading a book. He glances up when Ian walks in, smiles and says, “Welcome to The Mighty Pen, if you need help just ask,” and Ian hesitates. He wonders about where Mickey is, but he thinks it would be awkward to specifically ask about him, so he just blurts out, “Um, Agatha Christie’s stuff?” even though he was sitting there the last time.

The guy puts his book down, nodding, and points to his right, where Ian had gone the day before. “Mystery section,” he says. “Unless you want me to lead you there?”

“It’s fine,” Ian says, shifting the bag on his shoulder.

“Alright, well, if you need anything, just ask for Malik,” the guy says. “And I’ll help you out.”

Ian nods, heading over to the area, and decides to collapse on the couch. He takes out his phone and replies back to Fiona. Ian has been pretending like his family hasn’t been pressing him lately. They’ve done it in a very subtle way—Lip calls him one day, Fiona calls him the other, they have Debbie or Carl or Liam contact him, and then they leave him alone for one or two days. Ian would almost admire it, would like the attention and the knowledge that they care, but all they do is pester.

He checks his email next and sees an email from one of his coworkers, asking about the latest designs. Ian decides to get those messages later, putting his phone back in his pocket. He decides to get up from the seat right as Mickey turns into the aisle.

“Oh,” he says, a small smile finding its way on his face. “Hello again. Ian, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, picking up his bag as well. “You said to come back to talk about the book, so I—here I am.”

Mickey grins.  “How did you like it, then?”

“Loved it,” Ian says. “But it was fucking creepy. I kinda figured out that the deaths were going along with the poem almost immediately, but some of them were just creepy. And the last one, with Vera, that was definitely the worst. Because everyone else was murdered, but she walked into it completely willingly.”

Mickey nods throughout Ian’s speech and says when Ian finishes, “Yeah, that part with Vera always gives me chills. Especially the way she thinks about her memories, her thought process is just so completely out of it. Did you guess who the killer was?”

Ian shakes his head. “Not at all.”

Mickey grins. “Yeah, that’s a classic in Christie’s novels. Like, you can pick a character and guess that they’re the killer and possibly be right, but you don’t really know. She has a way of laying out tiny pieces of evidence that mean nothing until the big reveal, and you never knew who it was until it’s explained. She’s just fucking phenomenal.”

“I was thinking of reading more of her stuff,” Ian says, “and maybe you should show me where to start.”

Ian is kind of proud of himself for being able to flirt over books. Mickey’s only tell that it’s working is the slightest, slightest quirk of his mouth as he moves them down the shelf a little. “You started with my favorite,” Mickey says, “and I think the next best choice would be to start with the Poirot series. She’s really well known for them.”

“How many are there?” Ian asks, watching as Mickey looks over a shelf at a little above eye level. Ian has to keep himself from laughing at Mickey’s height, biting his bottom lip.

“Thirty-three.”

“Jesus,” Ian says. “That’s a fuckton.”

Mickey makes a small “Ah” sound and picks out a book, flipping it over to see the back. “Yeah, it’s a lot,” he says. “By the time she finished the novels, she actually hated the character Poirot. She called him a ‘detestable, bombastic, tiresome, ego-centric little creep.’” He handed the book over to Ian. “This is the first book. Detestable and tiresome he may be, he’s a great detective.”

Ian takes the book from Mickey and looks over the cover, running his hand over its smoothness. “Yet she still wrote for him, even though she hated him?” Ian asks.

Mickey snorts. “Of course. Poirot was more than a detective—he was money. Many others did this. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did.”

Ian follows Mickey over to the cash register, remembers what he says, and repeats, “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? The writer of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Why do you think he killed him off?” Mickey asks.

Malik is carrying around a bunch of boxes, loaded with new books. He says to Mickey, “This is the last one, and then the order forms are still in the back.”

Mickey nods and thanks Malik as he heads behind the register. Ian hands him the book, watches him punch in all the numbers, and says, “Sorry, but why is your cash register such a monstrosity?”

Mickey pauses from where he’s taking out Ian’s return cash. “I can’t believe this,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you just called Apollo a monster.”

Ian bursts out laughing, less from Mickey’s obvious fake hurting and more because his cash register has a name. “You not only have an old as fuck cash register that is blindingly gold, but it’s called Apollo?”

Mickey just continues shaking his head, making small tsk sounds. “Listen,” he says, giving Ian his change back, “my son had a phase with the Percy Jackson books, and he decided to name the register Apollo.”

“Ah, I get it,” Ian says. “Apollo, sun god, gold register.” He’s trying to ignore the crushing disappointment inside him, the one that repeats my son my son my son over and over in his head. Ian had been so sure. And he knows he shouldn’t make assumptions, that there’s still possibility, but there’s a flicker of doubt now.

“The name has stuck,” Mickey says, and Ian is slightly proud of himself for hiding his disappointment so that Mickey doesn’t see. It’s not Mickey’s fault that Ian was—is—hopeful. Ian takes his book and slips it into his pack.

Ian reminds himself not to close off, not to make assumptions, so he says, “Should I come back to talk about this book too?”

Mickey smiles. “Yeah, I’d like that.” He looks off to the left, as if considering, and then says, “Here.” He grabs a bookmark from a small mugful of bookmarks, all with different designs. They look like kindergartners drew them. He writes something on it with a black Sharpie, his handwriting a compacted scrawl. “Give this to the coffee shop right next to us,” he says, giving it over to Ian.

He’d written give 20% off - Mickey on the bookmark. “Thanks,” Ian says, smiling. “And I’ll be sure to get back to you about the book.”

Ian heads off to the coffee shop. There’s a sign on a swinging door that reads Wake Up Call, and Ian passes through the door. It’s such an abrupt shift of atmosphere—from the quiet, dusty, and antique feeling of the bookstore to the bright, loud, and modern feeling of the coffee shop—that Ian almost feels a little disoriented, blinking at the light and taking in the delicious smell.

As Ian stands in line, he notices that the furniture is pretty much from the same store that is in Mickey’s shop, because they look extremely similar. There’s a large couch with a table in front of it, two chairs on the opposite of the table. There are two side tables, stacked with board games in the little cubby holes, standing beside the couch. Besides those, the shop is filled with tables and chairs, but there are pillows and blankets in a corner.

When he gets to the counter, he orders a simple drink, although it’s almost deadly with it’s sugar and caramel. When he gives his money over to the barista—a cute, smiling girl named Ethel—he also gives her the bookmark, adding on an awkward, “Mickey said that I should give this to you?”

Ethel holds the bookmark hesitantly. She taps one of her coworkers and says, “Take over for a moment?” The other girl nods and takes over Ian’s order, while Ethel moves to the back.

Ethel returns with a dark-haired woman, a nose piercing flashing in the light. She looks at the bookmark, glances at Ian, and bursts out laughing. “Oh, god,” she says. “My brother is nothing if not predictable.” She appraises him, eyes flicking up and down his body. “Ethel, give him the discount,” she says, “only because my brother is so pathetic, and this attractive young man here didn’t know any better.”

This woman is the one who makes his coffee as Ian pays, and she comes around the counter to give it to him. “Excuse me,” she says as she hands it to him, “but I have to go have a talk with my brother.”

It takes a moment for Ian to connect my brother with Mickey, and he’s only a couple steps behind the woman as she steps back into the bookstore. The woman finds Mickey at the counter, and she says to him, “How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t give discounts to random people?”

Mickey doesn’t look up from the books he’s stacking. “Hm, no, I don’t remember ever having this conversation.”

The woman takes one of his books and smacks him on the arm. “Well, I don’t give random book discounts to my customers, so stay out of it. And this wonderful, innocent customer that you manipulated”—here she points at Ian, and it makes Mickey laugh—“whose name I don’t know is my witness that I told you not to give discounts anymore. Got it?”

Ian holds up his drink and says, “Ian.”

The woman smiles. “Nice to meet you, Ian, I’m Mandy. Now, did you hear me tell Mickey not to give people discounts?”

“Loud and clear,” Ian says.

“There, actual word-of-mouth proof,” Mandy says, with a triumphant turn back to Mickey. Mickey only looks vaguely amused by the entire situation. “Now, swear that you won’t give discounts to more customers.”

Mickey says in a monotone voice, “I swear I won’t give discounts to more customers.”

“I should have recorded that, but Ian is my witness. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run,” Mandy says.

“Bring me some of those lemon scones!” Mickey shouts after her. Mandy flips him off before she’s going through the swinging doors. Mickey rolls his eyes, but he’s shaking his head fondly, so Ian doesn’t take it for much than sibling relationships. As if he read Ian’s mind, Mickey says, “Siblings, right?”

Ian laughs. “I have six of them, so yeah, I get you.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “Six? Man, I have five. It’s hard to find people with bigger families than mine.”

“Well, one of them is my half-brother,” Ian says. Then he frowns. “Well, actually, all of my siblings are my half-siblings.”

Mickey grins. “Now that sounds like some good family drama.”

“Trust me, it was.”

Mickey laughs. “Well, my three brothers are my half-brothers, really, because they have a different mom than me. Mandy and I are full-on siblings, and I have a younger half-sister Molly. She works here sometimes, so you might see her around.”

Ian clutches his coffee cup closer to his chest. “Now that sounds like some good family drama.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Get out my bookstore before your coffee destroys my books.”

Ian huffs dramatically, but he leaves with a grin on his face, his coffee steaming warmly in his hands.

Ian knows his family cares—he’d even go as far as to say that they cared so much that it became too much. Ian had always been a firm believer in the middle-child syndrome, and he always knew that he would be craving attention. He just didn’t realize that sometimes there was a thing as too much attention, but he’d discovered its existence after he was diagnosed as bipolar.

It way why he’d moved out of Chicago and into a new city. He needed something entirely new, something that was entirely him, where the ghosts of Monica and his family couldn’t follow him.

Well, his family still followed him through phone calls and text messages, but at least there wasn’t a physical presence. Now it was reduced to a small thought at the back of his mind, as least until the next phone call.

He’d gotten a job at an advertising company, in the division that focused on the teenagers to twenties age group. Ian did fairly well, because he could judge pitches himself really well, and if not, he could throw it at Debbie, Carl, and Liam to see what they thought, as they were younger than him, and Liam was actually a teenager. He likes his apartment—it was simple, big enough to have space but small enough to feel individualized, and he hung out regularly with his neighbor Karen for TV marathons and weekly dinners. He likes his coworkers, they go out for drinks and dinner, and they respect that Ian doesn’t drink as much as them.

It’s not lonely. Ian is content, which is something he’s glad to have found. Fiona and Lip make it sound like he’s settling—that’s the word they always use—but Ian knows they’re mistaking settling for stability, and so he ignores their timid complaints.

He can never win with them, he thinks. They worry that he’s not social enough, but when Ian tells Fiona, “I made another friend, you know. His name is Mickey,” Fiona isn’t happy.

“A friend,” Fiona repeats pointedly.

Ian sighs. “God, Fiona—”

“Well I’m just wondering,” Fiona cuts in quickly. “I don’t want you to get too spread out.”

Ian rubs at his face, takes a deep breath. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just not sure if you’re ready for a relationship,” Fiona says. “You know, if I were you, I’d be wary about getting involved with someone.”

Ian gives a short laugh. “Why?”

Fiona sighs and only says, “Ian.”

“No, I want you to say it. I want you to say that it’s because I’m bipolar.” Ian’s voice shakes a little, he can’t help it.

“Ian, that is not why—”

“Don’t lie to me, Fiona,” Ian interrupts. He’s tired and disappointed and won’t feel sorry for using such a rude tone with her. “Listen, it’s a good thing you’re not me. Because you don’t actually know how I feel, and you aren’t actually bipolar, so you can’t tell me what to do or not to do. I mean, Jesus, you’re going to tell me what I can and can’t handle? You have no fucking idea what—” Ian breaks off and takes a couple more deep breaths. He can’t even get mad at her—mad at her for valid fucking reasons—without doubting himself. She has no idea. “Don’t call me unless you actually care,” Ian says, and hangs up while Fiona protests.

He briefly glances at his phone, wondering if he should call and ask Lip if anything happened to make Fiona think something like that, but he doesn’t want to fight with Lip either. They don’t always fight, but he can sometimes get that tone in Lip’s voice that says that he wants to say something but doesn’t for the sake of being brothers.

They worry that he’s too lonely and then complain that he has too many friends—sometimes Ian thinks that the only friends his family wants him to have is them.

Ian isn’t lonely, but he knows that he’s a people person. When his apartment gets to quiet, he knows he has backups. He feels better around other people. He works better with other people, and he can work by himself, but he likes knowing that others are working around him.

It’s probably why he finds himself back in Wake Up Call, working over some graphs of t-shirt trends that he’s supposed to look over. He has his headphones in to block out the noise, but he likes the commotion around him, the college students talking in the sofas, the kids playing one of the board games, the people walking in and out. It’s background noise for him, but it’s nice to know that it’s there, that so many lives are moving and struggling and improving.

(There’s one time where he sits next to a couple where the girl’s trying to awkwardly break up with the guy—Ian’s music isn’t actually on, and he listens to the entire meltdown. It’s certainly saddening, although Ian can’t fathom why anyone would break up with someone in the middle of a coffee shop. Then again, what does Ian know?)

He goes back to the bookstore—more than he likes to admit, but he genuinely does like reading (although maybe a little more now that he’s met Mickey)—to talk about the books Mickey recommends. Sometimes he leans against the counter and just talks with Mickey about anything, anything they could get a conversation started on, which happens to be quite a lot. Ian sure as hell isn’t subtle, and he’s pretty sure that Mickey isn’t being subtle either.

He asks Mandy about it once while she sits with him at his table in her coffee shop, and she groans. “Listen, I’m going to make one thing very clear,” Mandy says, “and that is this: any time I see anything close to Mickey’s relationships, I run about two-hundred miles in the other direction.”

“You’re not getting involved,” Ian translates.

Mandy laughs. “Exactly. Leave me out of it.”

He and Mandy grow close over his time there, closer than he expected. With all the time that he spends in her coffee shop, he ends up talking with her more, getting her phone number, and texting with her more than anyone else.

After a couple of days, he and Fiona make up, and he listens to her apology through the phone, wondering when their next fight will be. He’s tired of fighting with them, but he’s also tired of them never listening to him.

Ian’s bookshelf, which only had about fifteen books to start with, begins to fill up.

 Ian walks into the store and finds, to his surprise, a kid sitting at the desk and no one else around.

The kid has to be about ten years old, with dark hair and pale skin, sitting on top of the counter next to Apollo. His head is bent over the book he’s reading. Ian glances around the bookstore, but he doesn’t hear anyone else.

The kid looks up from his book. “Do you need help?” he asks, tipping his head to the side a little.

“Uh,” Ian says, unsure what to even say. His eyes travel to the shelves, praying someone will walk out and save him from this conversation.

The kid mistakes his wandering eyes as looking for books, because he says, “I can give you some book recommendations, if you want.”

Ian nods, relieved. “Sure, that sounds great.”

The kid closes his book. “Alright, well, have you read The Westing Game?”

Ian hasn’t even heard of it. “No,” he tells him.

The kid raises an eyebrow, and the movement is so familiar that Ian begins to have an inkling on who this kid is. “You’ve never read it?” he says, almost scandalized. “You have to. It’s a great book, it’s got a murder plot and other minor plots, like a bomber and a bookie, and it’s also one giant puzzle! All the characters are really cool. And I bet you’ll never guess who the killer is.”

Ian remembers Mickey telling him this and smiles, says to the kid, “Sure, I’ll go check it out. Which aisle?”

“Kid’s section,” he says, “although, personally, it shouldn’t only be classified as a kid’s book. I believe people of all ages can read and enjoy it.” And with that, seemingly done with Ian, he opens up his book and continues reading, his leg swinging off the desk.

Ian’s been in the store enough now to know where the kid’s section is, so he finds the book with relative ease. He reads the back cover, shrugs, and decides to get it. The kid had seemed extremely passionate about it, after all, so Ian will take his word for it.

When he comes back to the counter, Mickey’s standing there, talking to the kid as he points to something on the page the kid is reading. When he glances up at Ian, a smile breaks out on his face. “Oh, hey, didn’t know you were here,” he says, straightening up. The kid huffs and returns from his book, giving Ian a dirty look, like taking away Mickey’s attention is an extreme offense that deserves a punishment.

The kid doesn’t move when Ian goes to the counter to buy his book, but Ian makes sure than he can see which book he’s buying. The kid’s eyes glance off the title, and he turns the page of his book, feigning disinterest. Ian almost laughs.

Mickey gets one look at the book and sighs. “Yev, did you force Ian to buy this?”

Yev—and it’s easy for Ian to add up Mandy’s nephew Yevgeny + Yev + that eyebrow expression = Mickey’s child in his head—gives Ian an interested look. “This is Ian?” he says, and Ian cannot even believe how loaded Yev makes Ian’s name sound.

“Kid,” Mickey says sharply. “Did you force him to buy this?”

Yev shoots Mickey an offended look. “I recommended it to him, I didn’t force him,” he says hotly.

“Oh, right,” Mickey says, with a knowing glance at Ian. “It’s really convenient that this book is your favorite book, huh?”

“Stop interrupting my reading time,” Yev says, resuming his kicking legs.

Mickey smiles, rolling his eyes fondly. “Well, while you’re at it, do you have any other recommendations?”

Yev pauses while he considers, glances at Ian, and says, “Have you read the Harry Potter books?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ian says. “My siblings and I grew up with those.”

Yev beams, like Ian is the only person he’s ever met that’s read those books. “Really? Which one is your favorite? Mine is Prisoner of Azkaban.”

“Order of the Phoenix,” Ian replies.

Yev wrinkles up his nose. “I don’t like that one,” he says. “Harry is all angsty and depressed, it’s boring.”

Ian glances away, ignoring the kick in his gut, and says quietly, “That’s why I like it, kid.”

Mickey looks at him and his eyes hold. He and Ian share a long look, one where an understanding passes through Mickey’s eyes, and Mickey says, tone curt, “Go to your aunt’s, Yev.”

Yev looks back at Mickey. “What? Why?”

“Did I sound like this was up for discussion?” Mickey points to the coffee shop door. “Mandy’s. Now.”

Yevgeny huffs as he closes his book, jumping off the counter and walking over to the door, his book nestled underneath his arm.

Ian looks at Apollo, uncomfortable and feeling like he’s intruding, like he’s a burden.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey says.

“Don’t,” Ian says, looking up. “That’s—you don’t have to apologize for that.”

Mickey clenches his fists. “No, I—Yevgeny doesn’t understand that what he said was wrong, you know, so . . . I’ll apologize.” When Ian starts to protest, Mickey shushes him and says, “He’s my kid, okay, that’s kinda how this works.”

Ian glances at the coffee shop door, sighing. “Alright. Apology accepted.”

“Do you still want the book?” Mickey asks. “You don’t have to buy it, you know.”

“I’ll take it,” Ian says.

Mickey shakes his head as he punches the numbers into Apollo. “It’s Yev’s life mission to get everyone to read this book,” he says. “It’s been his favorite since he was little.”

“Well,” Ian says, “Milkovich book recommendations tend to work out well for me.”

Mickey doesn’t look up, but Ian sees the small smile on his face. It causes Ian’s stomach to get all fluttery, and for now, Ian enjoys it. It’s been so long since he’s genuinely liked someone, that it feels so natural with, that Ian wants to let this happen, wants to let his feeling spread.

Mickey puts the book in a bag and hands it to Ian. “I hope you enjoy your book, sir,” he says, his smile full of mirth. The fluttery feeling in Ian’s stomach bursts into warmth, pooling in his stomach.

Ian leaves the shop and has to stop outside, leaning against the wall and pressing a hand to his face to calm himself down.

He takes the long way home.

Ian tells himself that despite his new friends and new crush, he will not be so obvious as to spend his whole time there. It’s absolutely ridiculous, and Ian isn’t exactly hiding his crush on Mickey, but, like he said—obvious. It’s not something he wants to be.

So when Karen invites him to a trivia night at a local bar, Ian shrugs and says, “Yeah, okay.” Then, seeing that look in Karen’s eyes, “I’m not about to be beaten to death for not answering questions correct, am I? I know how competitive you are.”

Karen laughs, taking Ian’s sweater off the hook and throwing it at him. “Honestly, Ian, we don’t know shit. We’re usually the group in last place. Come on, it’s going to be fun. I’ll buy you nachos.”

“Oh, well, if there’s nachos,” Ian says.

Karen hooks her arm through his and drags him down another block, where they meet up with one of her friends, Matty, and then they’re all walking together down the street to a pretty clean bar. Another woman is waiting for them there, tall and blonde, and she introduces herself as Jasmine. “It’ll be good to have someone else on the team!” she says, smiling. “We’ll get so much more points now.”

Matty snorts. “Doubtful.” Then he casts a mortified look at Ian. “Oh, I didn’t mean that you were bad or anything—”

“No, it’s fine,” Ian says with a wave of his hand. “Trust me, I won’t be that much help.”

“You guys never have faith in us,” Jasmine says, shaking her head as she sits down.

“That’s because we only get worse with drinks,” Matty says.

Karen brightens at that. “Oh, what a wonderful idea! What does everyone want?”

As she leaves, Matty says, “Angela isn’t coming tonight?”

Jasmine shakes her head. “Apparently her douchebag boss wouldn’t let her have the night off, even though her hours technically aren’t this long. I don’t know why she doesn’t quit.”

“Green, rectangular-shaped paper that counts as something in this country,” Matty says dryly.

Karen returns to her seat with a couple of papers and a pen. “They’ve got our orders,” she says, “and the game is gonna start in twenty. Most important question: what’s our team name?”

They’re in the middle of bickering about it—so far, their favorite team name is The Only Straight One is Matty—when the door opens and a loud group walks in, requesting some of the papers for the game night. Karen glances at them and says, “God, not them again.”

Matty and Jasmine look up. Matty groans and says, “Well, if we weren’t losing before, we are now.”

“What, why?” Ian asks, turning in his seat to look at the group. When he finally catches sight of who they’re talking about, Ian’s stomach drops. He turns around quickly, says, “Oh, shit.”

“What is it?” Karen asks. “Do you know them?”

Ian doesn’t want to turn around—he would actually rather have the ground swallow him whole. He leans in to Karen and says, “The guy,” waiting for her to look. Mickey’s the only guy there, besides Yevgeny, so she glances over to them again and nods when she’s ready. “That’s Mickey,” he tells her.

Karen raises her eyebrows. “That’s Mickey?”

She says it loud enough for Matty and Jasmine to hear. Matty says, “Wait, who’s Mickey?” and Karen starts cackling.

Ian honestly hates her, and he tells her as much. She just starts laughing harder. Jasmine and Matty look reasonably confused, but Ian is almost too mortified to answer. The waiter comes by and hands everyone their drinks, telling them that the nachos will be out shortly, and Karen finally calms down enough to answer. “Mickey is the guy Ian has been mega-crushing on,” Karen finally says.

“Mega-crushing? Are we twelve?” Ian asks.

“Well, tell me when you’re in love with him so I can use adult words. Until then, you have a mega-crush on him,” she says. Ian scoffs.

Jasmine keeps looking at him. “I guess I can see the appeal, although I’m much more in favor of his lady friends. Either of them, really.”

“One of them is his sister,” Ian says. He doesn’t know the other woman they are with, but she had been talking to Yevgeny, so he’s pretty sure that’s his mother. “I’m honestly going to throw up. There’s no way they’re not going to see me tonight.”

“I can’t wait,” Karen says with glee. Ian always knew she was evil.

Matty is in the best position to see them without being too obvious, and he says after a moment, “He’s . . . he’s got tattoos on his hands that say ‘fuck you up’.”

“He does?” Karen grins, wicked and Cheshire Cat like, looking like Matty just gave her a million dollars. “Ian, you didn’t tell me that your bookstore-owning boyfriend had tattoos. This is honestly the best thing I’ve ever heard. God, you know how pick them.”

Jasmine casts Mickey a doubtful glance. “He owns a bookstore?”

“Yes,” Ian says. “It’s really nice, okay?”

“I bet you guys, like, have sex against the bookshelves,” Karen says. Matty promptly chokes on his beer, spilling part of it down his front, and Jasmine bursts out laughing. “Like, ‘Oh, Mickey, meet me in the thriller section. I’ll give you a thrill of your own.’”

Ian laughs. “That was horrible.” He takes a sip of his own drink, shaking his head. “Besides, we do it in the romance section.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Karen says, but she laughs anyways.

It’s at that moment that Mandy and Yevgeny go up to the bar to order drinks. Yevgeny has a small book in his hands—Ian honestly shouldn’t be surprised—and while Mandy orders, Yevgeny looks around the room.

So it’s him who notices Ian.

Ian says, “Fuck,” right as Yev sees Ian. His eyebrows furrow—Jesus, he’s exactly like Mickey—and he says, “Ian?”

Mandy turns around at that, looking at Yev and then following Yev’s gaze. Her eyes widen in surprise before her face breaks into a wide grin.

“Dear god,” Karen says. “Is that the sister?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, giving Yev a small wave. Yev looks uninterested, but he waves back.

“Ian,” says Karen, “please tell me that your tattooed boyfriend’s hot pierced sister is single.”

“She is and shut up,” he says, getting up and hugging Mandy when she comes over. Yev hangs out uncertainly at her side.

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing here?” asks Mandy, turning her grin to the table. “Oh, I recognize you guys. Hello again.”

Matty, Jasmine, and Karen all wave. Karen’s smile borders the line of warm and seductive. Ian makes a face at her.

“Karen’s my roommate, she invited me along,” Ian says, waving in Karen’s direction. Karen smiles up at Mandy. Ian gives her another face, because come on, Karen. “Why are you here?”

“We come to trivia night most weeks,” she says. “It’s started out as a way for us to hang out with Yevgeny, but now it’s just Milkovich tradition.”

Ian wants to ask what “for us” means, but he’ll stay out of it for now. “Even Yev?”

Mandy scoffs. “Please, Yev is the mastermind of it all. Aren’t you, kid?”

“You bet,” Yev says with absolute seriousness.

Mandy reaches out and ruffles Yev’s hair. “Yeah, we’re a crazy, brother-sister, ex-wife ex-husband, parent-son, and aunt-nephew ass kicking group,” she says.

“Sounds complicated, honestly.”

“Well, prepared to get your ass kicked anyways,” Mandy says, giving Ian a shit-eating grin. She pulls Yev close to her, covering his ears. “Sorry, I said, prepared to get your ass fucking annihilated.”

Yevgeny pushes her off. “I can hear you,” he says.

Mandy winks at Ian. “We’re working on his sense of humor. Hope you all have a good game, everyone,” she says. She takes Yev’s hand and says, “Let’s go, robot-boy.”

Ian sits back down, running a hand through his hair. Jasmine is smiling. “This night will be fun,” she says.

“Ian.” Karen puts a hand on his shoulder and looks into his eyes, a serious look on her face. “You are a shit wingman.”

Ian rolls his eyes, pushing her hand off. “Trust me, I know. Lip has told me repeatedly since birth that I’m not good at playing things cool.”

“Ah, tattooed bookstore owner at Ian’s six o’clock,” Matty says, raising his eyebrows significantly and then taking a gulp of his beer.

Ian hisses, “Shut up, he is not—” before Mickey is there, his hand on the back of Ian’s chair. “Hey,” Ian says, sitting up and smiling at him. “I swear I’m not following you.”

“Considering that you haven’t been in the store for about three days, I didn’t expect that you were,” Mickey says easily. Ian wishes he could take moment to collect himself because—really, Mickey had been counting the days he hadn’t been in. Mickey’s eyes slide to the rest of the table. “I’m Mickey,” he says. Everyone introduces themselves, and Mickey says, “Nice to know the names of the people we continuously beat.”

“Don’t be mean,” Ian says.

“Mean? Not me. It’s all friendly competition,” Mickey says.

“Friendly,” Jasmine repeats.

Mickey grins. “What can I say? We like winning.”

“You guys honestly know way too much,” Matty says. “We all thought you were cheating at first.”

“Nah,” Mickey says. He raises an eyebrow. “We just read a lot.”

Karen snorts. Ian has to look down at his drink—he fears that looking at Mickey would be too telling.

The person who hosts the trivia night calls for everyone to get together. Mickey says, “Good luck to—what’s your team name?”

They all glance at each other. Karen says, “The Only Straight One is Matty.”

There’s a small silence, where Ian is horribly aware of the fact that this is the closest thing he’s going to get to coming out to Mickey—that this is confirmation that yes, Ian is in fact gay—but all Mickey says is, “That’s fucking awesome. We have to think of a new team name because they’re not allowing us to use our old one.”

“What was your old one?” Matty asks.

Mickey says with a straight face, “Only Bitches Ain’t Milkoviches.” The entire table starts laughing, which makes Mickey say, “Right? It’s fucking gold. They don’t appreciate a good team name.” The host announces that they’re about to start, so Mickey says his goodbyes. He touches Ian’s shoulder, says, “I’ll see you around, yeah?” before heading back to his table.

“I think,” Karen says, watching Mickey go, “that I cannot use the term mega-crush anymore.”

“Thank god,” Ian says.

As it turns out, the Milkoviches do kick their ass. The first round is a common knowledge round, which makes no fucking sense, because their group only knows three out of ten of them. They all stare at each other, wide-eyed, before bursting out laughing because they just don’t know. The only ones they get are the first commandment (Matty), the name of the parade in California for New Years (Ian), and the name of the only marsupial native to North America (Jasmine, and she still has no idea how the fuck she knew that).

They laugh about it before getting their sum total of three points—the Milkoviches get eight—and then they’re on the next round. They get ten pictures of different birds, and for a moment their group just stares at it. “What the fuck?” Karen says.

Apparently the round is called “Guess the Fowl,” which is fitting, but they struggle with it. Ian recognizes the picture of Chicken Little, as he watched it when was younger. Matty gets the vultures from The Jungle Book, while Karen gets the geese from The Aristocrats, Amelia and Abigail. Jasmine is the only one who recognizes Heckle and Jeckle, laughing at how young they all are not to recognize them. They manage to get a couple more birds by throwing ideas around, and they get a solid seven points. The Milkoviches get all ten, and they check a box at the bottom of the page that doubles the points if you think you get all ten correct.

And they get it.

Mickey keeps shooting Ian a smug grin every time they win points, and Ian should honestly be reconsidering his crush on Mickey.

He’s not. Those smug grins are making Ian rethink what he said to Karen about him and Mickey in the romance section.

Matty was right when he said that they only get worse with alcohol in them. Karen complains that it’s making her brain foggy and she can’t think, and since they’re not allowed to look anything up, they’re basically fucked.

“No wonder they keep the kid with them,” Jasmine says, almost in a whisper. “His tiny alcohol-lacking brain must be full of knowledge.”

“We’ll get the last round,” Ian says. He gets the card for the final round, sees the title, and says, “Never mind, we’re fucking screwed.”

“What is it?” Karen asks.

“Match the assassinations with their location,” Ian reads.

“Aaaand this is where I peace out,” Matty says. They all laugh and tell him to shut up and help them, why doesn’t he.

They manage to get a good amount of them—Martin Luther King Jr., Robert Kennedy, John F. Kennedy, Ghandi, Abraham Lincoln, Franz Ferdinand, and John Lennon. They guess on the last three, trying to match their names with the regions they go with. They shrug and say that at least they had fun, and so who cares what their score was? Matty checks off the box at the bottom, aiming for double points, and they turn the sheet in.

They actually get it. Their entire group screams and laughs because seriously? They can’t get the common knowledge section but they can get assassination locations? They move from sixth place to third place. Jasmine buys them all a shot to celebrate.

The Milkoviches win with thirty-seven points, but their group doesn’t really care—third place is the farthest they’ve ever gotten. “Wait until we tell Angela,” Jasmine gasps, tears forming in her eyes from laughing. “She’ll be so mad, oh my god.”

After a couple more minutes talking and finishing their drinks, they grab their coats and begin to head out. Jasmine offers them all a ride home, but Ian feels a bit energetic, like he could go on a run. He hasn’t gone on a run in a long time, since he’d been diagnosed. Nothing sounds better than running home right now, his lungs burning and the night hair chilling his hands and nose.

He used to be so much more in shape.

While Jasmine gets the car from the curb and Matty and Karen chat, Ian eyes the Milkoviches inside the bar. They’re putting on their coats too, and Ian really can’t forget the way Mickey was looking at him.

Ex-wife, Mandy had said. And Ian is one-hundred percent positive that straight guys don’t look at other guys the way Mickey looks at Ian.

Jasmine pulls up to the curb, waving at them all to get in the car. Ian hesitates after Karen, hand curled around the door handle, before he lets go and steps back. “I think I’m gonna stay,” he says, “and walk back.”

Karen raises an eyebrow. “It’s dangerous out here, this late, by yourself.”

Ian gives her a look. “Don’t make me say it, Karen. You know I won’t be by myself.”

Karen laughs. “Oh, I know. You’re so transparent. Have fun tonight, Ian. If there aren’t details tomorrow, I’ll be thoroughly disappointed.”

Ian rolls his eyes, waving at everyone as they pull away. He’s shy about walking back in, suddenly, so he waits outside, leaning against the wall of the bar. He wishes he had a cigarette to smoke so he doesn’t look so fidgety, but it doesn’t really matter, because all the Milkoviches spill out at that moment.  

Mandy notices Ian first, says, “Oh, hey there,” as she grins.

He must be very obvious, which makes him cringe—that was the whole point of avoiding them for a little while—but he figures he may as well go for it. “Figured I could walk home with you guys. Is that alright?”

“It’s fine,” Mickey says. He’s kneeling down by Yevgeny, making sure Yev’s coat is properly tightened.

“My apartment is closer anyways,” Ian says. “Or—maybe. I just realized I don’t actually know where you live.”

Mickey and Mandy both laugh, and Ian notices the other woman watching him with slightly narrowed eyes. “I’m Ian,” he says, offering up his hand.

Her mouth quirks. “Oh, I know,” she says as she takes his hand. “I’m Svetlana, Yevgeny’s mother.”

Ian decides to be like her, so he smiles and says, “Oh, I know.” She raises an eyebrow at that, looking unimpressed—Ian now sees where Yevgeny gets that—but Ian isn’t bothered by it.

Ian mostly chats with Mandy while they all walk back down the block. He can hear Svetlana and Mickey talking with Yev, and it’s not something he wants to interrupt. Mandy tells him stories of earlier trivia nights they’d gone to, how Yevgeny in school was really competitive with games because of it, how someone who played once came into her coffee shop and had spluttered for a little.

By the time they reach Ian’s apartment, Ian’s stomach and cheeks hurts with how much he’s been laughing. He hugs Mandy goodbye, gives Yevgeny a fistbump (Yevgeny eyes it as if it’s a poisonous snake, before finally relenting and tapping his knuckles against Ian’s), and Svetlana shakes his hand again. Before Ian can really consider what he’s going to do to Mickey (hug him? shake hands?), Mickey pulls him into a tight but quick hug. Ian barely has enough thoughts to hug Mickey back, and before he can even think about any of it, Mickey’s already pulled away.

“Stop ignoring us, okay?” he says, giving Ian a small punch on the arm.

Ian watches him jog to catch up to the rest of the Milkoviches before turning into the apartment. When he gets up to his floor and to his apartment door, the one down the hall opens.

Karen pokes her head out. “I thought it was you,” she says, leaning her shoulder against the wall. The lights in the hall are orange, and it makes Karen look all weird. “I’m disappointed,” she continues. “If you’re here, that means there won’t be any fun details for me.”

Ian laughs, opening up the door. “I got a hug,” he tells her.

“Oh, a hug,” Karen says. “I think we’re back to the term mega-crush.”

Ian shakes his head, smiling. “Goodnight, Karen,” he says.

When Ian enters the bookstore the next day, he makes sure that he’s as obnoxious as possible. He walks in, making sure the door slams a little, and then knocks on the wood of the door. Ian can see Mickey at the counter—Mickey looks up when he hears Ian enter—and Ian starts whistling, not caring if anyone else is in here.

Mickey has an amused look on his face, his eyebrow raising when Ian starts to whistle. Ian then, very casually, inspects the back of a random book off the shelf. It’s one of the heavier books, and Ian drops it so that it falls flat on the cove and emits a loud noise.

“Woah,” Mickey says, straightening from behind the cover. “Annoy me if you will, but don’t take it out on the books, got it?”

Ian picks up the book and puts it back in place, trying to hide his laugh. He walks up to the counter and says, “I just wanted to make my entrance very loud and important. Just so that you couldn’t mistake me and say that I’m still ignoring you.”

Mickey looks like he wants to laugh, but he schools his expression into disappointment. “Still, you don’t have to bring the books into this,” he says.

Ian holds up his hands. “You started this, not me.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Who walked in here and acted obnoxious as shit?”

Ian laughs. “Fine, fine, you got me there.”

“See? Next time you wanna start a fight, don’t do it in front of the children,” Mickey says, and Ian can see the smile winning the fight for the expression on his face.

“God, it sounds like we’re gonna have a divorce,” Ian says.

Mickey laughs. “Well, be careful there. I happen to be very good at divorces.” When he notices Ian’s hesitation, he says, “You can laugh at that, Ian. It’s fine.”

Ian shrugs. “Sorry, I just—don’t wanna do anything wrong. Or offensive.”

“It’s fine,” Mickey says. “You’ve met Svetlana. Did we really seem like we had a horrible divorce?”

Ian remembers the way that she and Mickey had talked to each other. They seemed extremely friendly, like they’d known each other for a while. Considering that Yev was around ten, they probably knew each other longer.

“No, you didn’t,” Ian says. “It seemed like you guys were friends.” Mickey nods, and, feeling brave, Ian asks, “Did . . . I mean, are you on good terms for Yevgeny, or . . . ?”

Mickey holds Ian’s eyes for a moment, as if assessing him. “Partly,” he says. “We went through some tough shit, Svetlana and I. And our marriage was part of that. But we got through and figured it was better if we were friends than enemies. As it turns out, we actually like each other. It all works out.”

“You didn’t want to marry her?” asks Ian.

Mickey’s mouth twists into a smile, but it’s without humor. “No. And that’s as far into this conversation as I’ll go today.”

Ian nods, pressing his nails into his palms. “See—didn’t want to do anything offensive, and here I am.”

Mickey gives Ian a look. “Shut up. I stopped you before it became offensive. Now you’ve just made it awkward.”

Ian sighs. “That’s probably my specialty.”

“Trust me, it’s not,” Mickey says. Someone comes in the store, and Mickey looks behind Ian to welcome them to the store. “If you need any help, just ask,” he says, smiling. He turns back to Ian and says, “Stop laughing.”

“You’re such a different person with customers,” Ian says.

“It’s like you’ve never been in customer service before,” Mickey says.

“Oh, I have,” Ian says. “Worked at a convenience store all my teenage years. Shitty as hell, but it paid bills.”

“Pretty sure that’s true with the majority of jobs, Ian,” Mickey says.

“Oh, what? You run the bookstore just because it pays the bill?”

Mickey narrows his eyes at Ian. “I said the majority of jobs. This bookstore is obviously one of the exceptions.”

“I’m sure you grew up wanting to own a bookstore.”

“Oh, you think you know me?” Mickey asks, laughing. “Are you making assumptions because of my tattoos?” He points a finger at Ian. “I bet what you wanted to be changed as you grew up.”

Mickey’s not wrong, Ian thinks, so Ian says, “Yes.”

“See? What did you want to be?”

Ian’s stomach starts squirming a little. “I wanted to be in the army. An officer.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Wow. You like guys in uniforms, then?”

Ian laughs. “I wanted to be one of those guys in uniforms, actually.”

Ian steps aside to let two girls buy their books. He watches Mickey chat with them, the different way he holds themselves. They notice his tattoos and glance at each other, taking in his nice, bookstore demeanor and giggle to each other. Ian feels like he’s seeing his own feelings displayed in front him, and he smiles fondly at the girls. Mickey meets his eyes and Ian smiles wider.

Ian wonders if it would be inappropriate to ask Mickey out. Or frankly skip that whole mess and kiss him.

The girls leave, shooting both Ian and Mickey appreciative looks. Mickey shakes his head, taking the receipt they’d rejected and throwing it in the trash. When he’s done, he looks at Ian and says, “So, what happened?”

Ian frowns. “What?”

“You said you wanted to be in the army. You’re obviously not, so what happened?”

Ian licks his lips, trying to figure out how to say this. “I got kicked out,” he says, meeting Mickey’s eyes. Mickey looks confused, but he must be better at this than Ian, because he doesn’t ask any further. He knows not to push.

“Sorry about it,” Mickey says, breezily, and then, “Are you doing anything later this week?”

“If you’re asking me if I’m going to be in later, there’s no point,” Ian says. “You know I’ll be here.”

Ian watches Mickey smile and thinks, fuck it, I’ll be obvious as hell.  

“I meant for a specific occasion,” Mickey says. “When December comes, Yevgeny and I have a tradition of decorating the store with lights and paper snowflakes. I was wondering if you wanted to join us.”

Ian feels touched, and he swallows past a lump in his throat. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your tradition or anything.”

Mickey leans on the counter with his elbows, rolling his eyes as he does so. “If I wanted you to intrude on tradition, I would’ve invited you to Thanksgiving. Trust me, Yevgeny won’t mind. If anything, he’ll be glad to boss someone else around.”

Ian smiles. “Ah, so it’s really just Yevgeny using us adults to decorate.”

Mickey laughs. “Exactly like that. I keep telling him he has to wait until his growth spurt.”

Ian sweeps his eyes up and down Mickey’s body. “No offense, but I don’t think his genetics promise a huge growth spurt.

Mickey glares at him. “Asshole,” he says fondly, and then, “Here, give me your number. That way I can text you the day we’re doing it.”

Ian nods and hands over his phone, watching Mickey put in his number. He almost can’t believe that he never had Mickey’s phone number up until this point. Mickey hands his phone back—Ian almost expects Mickey to have put something clever or funny as his name, but he’d just put in Mickey Milkovich—and Ian texts him a quick hey. Mickey adds Ian as a contact, replying with a Hi. Period and everything.

Ian glances up at Mickey and says, with fake horror, “Oh, god, you’re one of those people who texts with perfect grammar, aren’t you?”

Mickey laughs. “Ian, I run a bookstore.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! It could be the opposite. It would be great, actually, it’d be the opposite of what you’d expect. The person who runs a bookstore has a texting style of a preteen.” Ian snaps his fingers. “Irony! That’s irony.”

“Congratulations, Ian, on passing a ninth grade English class.”

Ian tells him to fuck off and explain how they’re going to make the bookstore more wintery. Mickey delves into a story of one year where Yevgeny decided to hide snowflakes in random places. Ian nods and laughs and smiles in all the right places, and on some level he is listening to Mickey speak. But he also knows that he can’t stop staring at Mickey’s eyes, his mouth, the curve of his jaw as he speaks. 

And he’s pretty sure that Mickey notices him staring.

Thanksgiving passes without much excitement.

Karen leaves the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and Ian sits on her bed and watches her pack. She’s going to visit her mother back in Chicago, which Ian admires. He knows their relationship has always been rocky but Karen still loves her mother dearly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Karen asks. “Mom wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, she’d probably be happier with another mouth to feed. She loves to cook.”

Ian shakes his head. “It’s not that I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving because of my family. They’re fine. We just don’t really do Thanksgiving anymore, that’s all.” They had tried to celebrate another Thanksgiving in order to have a new memory over what happened with Monica, but it hadn’t really worked.

Maybe Ian doesn’t really want to spend it with his family, either. He can’t help but feel that they’d watch him the entire night, making sure he doesn’t do anything like Monica. He doesn’t want to deal with that.

A week ago, Ian’s didn’t feel quite well. He’d gotten scared, ended up going to his doctor to make sure that his meds were still working. He absolutely didn’t want anything happening on Thanksgiving—it must be cursed, he had thought—and his doctor had recommended him a slight change in his meds. He feels better now, and he still can’t quite tell if that was actually something serious or his own anxiety.

Karen shrugs. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Ok-ay. Just know my mom makes the best food ever.”

“I know, Karen. I’ve had it before, remember? She always sends you little care packages.”

“Exactly. If you think her muffins are good, wait till she goes all out on Thanksgiving.”

Ian smiles softly. “Thanks, but I’m seriously fine.”

Karen crosses her arms over her chest. “If you’re ditching me for a certain someone—”

Ian shakes his head, quickly says, “No, of course not. Trust me, I’m going to be in my apartment all day, eating some pre-made turkey and a piece of pumpkin pie. I’ll probably watch TV.”

Karen eyes him for another moment, then turns back to her bag. “Very well,” she says. “And if you’re lying—”

“I’m not.”

“—just know that I still want details,” Karen says.

Ian rolls his eyes. He picks up a shirt by him on the bed and chucks it on her head. She manages to catch it and hurls it back. Ian doesn’t bother trying to hide from the hit, and it catches him on the side. 

On Thanksgiving Day, he calls each of his family members and talks to them. It takes him longer than he thought it would, but it’s nice for once. Maybe in a couple of years, Ian thinks, they’ll all be able to have a Thanksgiving again. It’s a nice thought, them as a family once again. Or them as a family and all together again.

He texts Mickey and Mandy a quick Thanksgiving, which they reply to. Ian makes some mashed potatoes, gets his pre-cooked turkey, and some mac and cheese. It’s nice to have a day to himself, watching TV as he eats, and it’s one of the most relaxing days without guilt that he’s had in while. He’s used to worrying about not being productive—if he spent a day just lazing about, he’d panic a little, wondering if his meds were still working. Today Ian feels stable, content, and possibly like any other person who just had a lazy day.

Ian comes to the bookstore to find it locked. Ian isn’t surprised—it’s after hours, the time Mickey set for him, Yevgeny, and Ian to decorate the bookstore. He waits a little for someone to come unlock the door, but no one comes. Ian knocks again, stuffing his hands in his pocket and bracing against the cold winter wind. When his knocks continue to go unanswered, he pulls out his phone and calls Mickey with stiff fingers, clumsy from the cold.

Mickey seems to answer on the last right. “Ian?” he says, and Ian can’t quite decipher why his voice sounds funny.

“Hey,” Ian says. “I don’t know if you can hear me knocking, but I’m waiting outside.”

There’s a rather long pause. Mickey says, “Outside—you’re outside?”

“Yes?” Ian says, his answer tilting to a question. This is the day that Mickey said to come, the time, and Ian’s beginning to get confused.

“Oh, fuck,” Mickey says. His voice is slow, like he’s taking his time in answering. “I didn’t—I didn’t call you? Or, fuck, what’s the—text you? Nothing?” 

“No,” Ian says, dragging out the vowel.

“Fuck,” Mickey says, “okay, hold on.”

Ian waits a little more, peering over the CLOSED sign into the bookstore. It looks creepy with all the lights shut off, but it also looks warm, so Ian will take it.

Mickey comes back on the phone to say, “You’re. You’re not outside.”

Ian’s going past confused to I’m pretty sure I’m in an alternate universe. “Yes, I am.”

“Um, no, because I’m outside and you’re not.”

Definitely an alternate universe, Ian thinks. “Mickey, I’m literally standing right outside the shop. I can see the door, I can see Apollo sitting on the counter, I can see your sign with The Mighty Pen on it. I’m one hundred percent positive I’m outside. Two hundred percent, even.”

For some reason, that makes Mickey burst out laughing. “Two hundred,” he says, his laugh dissolving into small giggles. Ian has never heard Mickey make that sounds before. “Ian, you’re in front of the store. I’m in front of my door.” Mickey starts laughing again. “That fucking rhymed.”

Ian sighs. “Where—”

“Behind the bookstore, dumbass. Go around the block, there’s an alley.”

Ian huffs, hanging up the phone and walking briskly around Mandy’s coffee shop. He sees a smaller sign on the wall that marks where the bookstore back entrance is, but right next to it is another door. That door is open, with Mickey leaning against the doorframe.

“I didn’t even know this existed,” Ian says, stepping up to the door. Mickey moves out of the way, but ends up knocking his shoulder into the door. He cusses, grasping his shoulder with his hand, and stumbles into the wall. “Jesus, Mickey,” Ian says, closing the door behind Mickey and moving to help him. He holds out his hand for Mickey to pick up, but Mickey ignore sit, grumbling to himself and trying to push himself up. When it becomes obvious that Mickey isn’t going to accept Ian’s help, nor is he going to push himself up himself, Ian bends down to put Mickey’s arm around his shoulders.

It’s by bending down, his face close to Mickey’s, that he smells the alcohol on him.

“Mickey, are you drunk?” Ian asks.

Mickey grunts. “I meant to text you,” Mickey says.

“Not to come, yeah,” Ian says, and then, “Mickey, come on, I’ll help you up.”

In any other circumstance, Ian would’ve been pleased to have Mickey’s arm around his shoulder, and Ian’s arm around Mickey’s waist, but now wasn’t the time for things like that. Ian helps Mickey stand and then helps him up the stairs. Mickey’s apartment must be above the bookstore, Ian thinks, and he’s proven correct when he reaches the door at the top and kicks it in.

Mickey pushes away from him and flops down on the couch, picking up a beer on the table next to him and draining it.

“Is this why we’re not decorating today?” Ian asks.

Mickey scowls at him. “Fuck you,” he says. “I wouldn’t do that to Yev.”

Ian raises his hands in the air and says gently, “Well, what happened?”

Mickey finishes the beer, crumples it, and throws it across the room. “Divorce happened,” he says, and then starts laughing.

Ian doesn’t know what to say, so he just shrugs his coat off, unwinding his scarf from his neck. When he goes to sit on the couch, Mickey points to the kitchen and says, “No, no, get a beer first. For both of us.” Ian rolls his eyes but does it anyways, grabbing two from the fridge and heading back to the couch.

Ian sits down on the other side of Mickey, handing one of the beers off to Mickey. Mickey raises it up to Ian, as if saying thanks. Ian considers Mickey while he takes a drink, thinking over Mickey’s words, and says when he finishes his sip, “So, Yevgeny didn’t come today, and you decided to get drunk?”

“Pretty much,” Mickey says. His eyes cut over to Ian, and Ian can tell his narrowed eyes are judging him. “You got a fucking problem with that?”

“Not at all,” Ian says. “Just wanted to clear things up.” Mickey seems defensive when Ian brings it up, so Ian decides not to press him on it. He glances around the room instead. They’re sitting on a black couch, a coffee table in front of them, and a TV across the room. There are smaller things—a side table, lamps, another sofa chair—but what’s completely evident is the books. There are books stacked on the side tables, books on the coffee table, books in a bookshelf to Ian’s right, and books stacked where the DVD’s are meant to be. There’s even books just stacked into little piles, pushed up against the nearest vertical surface.

Ian smiles. And he thought his own little bookshelf was full.

After a moment, Mickey gives a long sigh. “It’s my weekend,” Mickey says, putting his feet up on the coffee table. His foot hits a book with a pair of glasses on top, causing the glasses to tip over the other side of the book. “It’s my weekend, and Svetlana decided to take Yevgeny to a museum.”

Ian nods his head and remains quiet.

Mickey continues, after another drink, “Even if I hadn’t already had definite plans with Yevgeny, this is my weekend. Her museum visit—it’s not like she had special tickets for this day only. She could’ve gone any time. And I mean—fuck—I guess I could have had us decorate the store at any other time as well. It was all rearrangeable! But it’s still my fucking weekend, and she just—” Mickey inhales sharply, and Ian doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s close to crying.

“I see Yevgeny,” Mickey starts again, “every other weekend. That’s four days out of the month. Maybe more, if I’m lucky enough that my weekends fall on a three day weekend. But that’s, like, fifty fucking days out of the years. Svetlana gets the rest of the fucking year. And maybe, if she’s busy or traveling for a week or so, Yev will stay with me. But otherwise . . . bread crumbs. Fuck.” Mickey rubbed his hands over his eyes for a moment before holding them there.

“She didn’t ask you if she could take him to the museum?” Ian asks.

Mickey shakes his head and says, hands still on his face and muffling his voice, “No, she only called me this morning and told me.” Mickey pulls his hands away. “Which is bullshit, by the way, because if I ever asked her for something like that, she’d refuse. I could tell her that Mandy has this thing that she wants Yev to go to and Svetlana will be like ‘it’s my weekend, so no,’ but when it’s my weekend, it doesn’t matter.”

Ian doesn’t know what to say, so he only offers, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t make me knock the teeth out of your head,” Mickey says, giving Ian a fond glance. “You know you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Ian hadn’t been worried about that. “I know,” Ian says. “But Mickey, I . . . I grew up with split parents, of a sort. My father was alcoholic and abusive and my mother was never around. My sister had to raise me and my siblings, and this isn’t even getting around to my other family.” Ian makes sure that Mickey is looking at him before he says, “Mickey, what you’re doing—what you and Svetlana are doing—it’s really great. To try and keep it, you know, together and stable for Yevgeny . . . it’s nice. It’s wonderful.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow at him, almost doubtful. “‘Nice’ and ‘wonderful aren’t usually words associated with myself.”

Ian shrugs, refusing to feel embarrassed by this, and takes another drink of his beer. Mickey is watching him now, almost cautiously, and his eyes trail up and down Ian’s body. Ian tries not to think of anything but the books around them, but he fails—they’re both drinking, and in Mickey’s apartment, alone, for a considerable amount of time.

But Mickey only says, “You know, your family. It sounds familiar.”

It’s Ian’s turn to raise a doubtful brow at Mickey. “Is it because we established that both have family drama?”

Mickey snorts. “I mean, yes, that. But also, just the way you described it . . . and Mandy and I were talking about this once, the way you carry yourself, the way you speak sometimes . . . you’re South Side, aren’t you?”

Ian is shocked for a moment, and then says, “Yes, and—you are too?” Mickey nods his head. “How did we never—”

“Not like South Side is a town of one-hundred,” Mickey says. “Besides, it’s better that you didn’t know us. Meant you didn’t get your ass beat to hell and back.” Mickey finishes this beer and crumples it up again. “I dropped out of school my freshman year,” Mickey says. “Got in a lot of trouble. Married Svetlana when I was eighteen. The second we found out she was pregnant, we booked it out of there. Children aren’t safe in my father’s house.” Mickey burps, then gives a short laugh. “Fuck, anyone but my dad isn’t safe in my dad’s house.”

“You said, when we talked before, that you hadn’t wanted to marry Svetlana,” Ian says, and Mickey confirms it with a nod of his head. “Can I ask what happened?”

Mickey leans his head back on the couch, letting out a long exhale. “My dad forced us to get married,” he says, slow, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s saying, “because he found out I was gay.”

“That’s—” Ian starts, and then stops. He’d always thought Frank was somewhere in the middle of “doesn’t care” and “extremely homophobic” on Ian’s scale. Somedays he didn’t give a shit who Ian was fucking, and other times, he was making snide, homophobic comments. Not to mention the other times where he hit Ian. But to imagine this—a father who hated you so much that he made you marry a woman—is almost unbelievable to Ian. “But, you are, um, gay,” Ian says, and then wishes he could shut his mouth forever.

Ian thought Mickey might take offense, because that’s what Ian focused on, so he doesn’t expect Mickey to smile. “Ian,” he says, his voice warm and fond, “I haven’t been flirting with you the entire time I’ve known you for me to think I’m straight.”

“Well, I knew you weren’t straight,” Ian says, “but I didn’t quite know your sexuality because—”

“Yevgeny,” Mickey interrupts, and Ian nods. “Look,” Mickey says. “All you need to know about that is that it was bad, before, and Svetlana and I dealt with it. And now we both love Yevgeny, and we both support him, and we actually like each other.”

Ian nods, swallowing down some beer to get his thoughts in line. “When did you guys divorce?”

Mickey laughs. “God, you’re fucking nosy.”

“You could just tell me, hey, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t mean to be nosy.”

“Yes you do,” Mickey says. “And I filed for divorce the second that Svetlana and I were both stable financially.” Mickey stretches out his body, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. “It was mutual. She signed the papers easily. We filed for joint-custody, so that I’d send money for Yevgeny. That was part of our agreement—she would agree to the divorce if I still sent money. At the time, I . . . wasn’t as loving to him as I was now. I could hardly even—” Mickey pauses. “Fuck. It was bad, okay? I just couldn’t deal with him. When he was five, I finally . . . I realized I was better. And I could accept him as my son, because . . . fuck, I didn’t want to be like my dad.”

That strikes Ian in the chest; Ian has struggled with not wanting to be like Monica for years now.

“I sent him books,” Mickey says, voice small and near-crying again. “I . . . I was never around, but I didn’t want him to think I abandoned him. So I sent him books, for his birthday and Christmas. Shit I thought he’d like. And then I’d just send books at any time, any time I thought I needed to.”

Ian lays his beer can down on the coffee table and puts a hand on Mickey’s arm, so he doesn’t make him alarmed. Mickey doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t push Ian away, so Ian squeezes Mickey’s arm and lets it rest there, just for comfort.

Mickey opens his eyes, leaning forward, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. Ian lets his hand fall away. “I feel like laughing,” Mickey says. “I’m complaining that I don’t get to see my son as often as I used to. If I had been in a position similar to how I was when I was eighteen—fuck, I’m grateful that this is the most of my problems.”

“But you’re still pissed about it,” Ian says.

Mickey laughs, then. “But I’m still fucking pissed about it,” he says. Then, after a quiet pause, “I don’t know. I guess . . . Even though I’m mad, I’m pretty happy about the way life has turned out for me. When I was a teenager, I didn’t expect to live long, and now . . .”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Ian says. “I always thought, growing up, that I’d get into the army and become an officer. And life . . .” Ian laughs. “Well, life didn’t really turn out that way. But I’m still happy with where I am and the people I’ve met.”

Mickey glances at Ian then. “Will you allow me to be nosy now?”

“If you want. It’s only fair.”

“What happened with the army?” Mickey asks. “If it was your great dream and all.”

Ian says, “I got kicked out. For trying to steal a helicopter.”

Mickey gives Ian an incredulous look. “You stole a helicopter? And only got kicked out?”

Ian nods. “I got dishonorably discharged because I was bipolar—well, manic—when it happened. And the army figured they had bigger shit to deal with than some mentally ill kid who had done one fucked up thing.”

Mickey doesn’t react the way Ian expects him to. Not that he expected Mickey to have this huge, dramatic “What?” moment, but Ian expected some type of reaction. And Mickey does nothing, just stares at Ian a moment longer before nodding and turning away.

“I’m not like that anymore,” Ian says. “I mean—I’m still bipolar. That—that doesn’t really go away. But I’m not unmedicated.”

“Ian,” Mickey says, and his voice says you don’t have to tell me this.

“It’s hard, still,” Ian says. “So I guess we’re both trying to not let the past get the best of us.”

Mickey looks back at Ian at that moment, and there’s something different in his eyes. It’s not the look of an emotion caused by their topic of conversation, but like he’s looking at Ian and seeing Ian, fully. Like a puzzle piece fit and connected the image of Ian in his head.

“I—” Mickey starts, but Ian’s phone rings and interrupts him.

It’s only Lip, when Ian looks at it. Ian says, “I don’t have to answer it—” but Mickey sighs and says, “You should. I was going to say that I’ll probably need to sleep off the alcohol. Yevgeny’s probably going to come over later, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not in the mood to decorate the store right now.”

“No, it makes sense,” Ian says. “But you’ll tell me when you guys do decorate?”

Mickey smiles. “Yeah, of course.”

Ian nods, calling Lip from his phone and waving goodbye to Mickey as he heads to the door. At the last moment, Mickey says, “Hey, Ian!” Ian turns around, waiting for Lip to pick up. “Thank you,” Mickey says. Ian nods, giving Mickey a small smile, and leaves.

The only other time to decorate the store is a couple days before Christmas. Ian makes it, but he has to leave immediately after, to get ready for packing and leaving. He buys three books for gifts for his family—Mickey laughs at him while he does it, but Ian doesn’t care—and looks around the store before he leaves. There’s a small Christmas tree next to the cash register, lights hanging around various parts of the store, and paper snowflakes taped to walls and hanging from the ceiling.

Yevgeny had taken the decorating very seriously, and he used Ian to his best benefit—namely, the tall stuff. After climbing on the ladder for the fifth time to hang something from the ceiling, Ian says to Yevgeny, “You’re just exploiting me, aren’t you?”

Yev replies, with perfectly faked innocence, “What does exploiting mean?” before walking away to command Mickey to do something else. Ian bursts out laughing.

Before Ian leaves, the newly bought books stuffed in his bag, he says to Yevgeny, “This is a great-looking store. Very Christmasy. I bet it’s the best decorated store in the entire city.”

Yevgeny says, “That’s a bit impractical, to think it’s the best in the whole city.” He narrows his eyes at Ian, considers him for a moment, and then says, “But thank you.”

“Honestly, Mickey,” Ian says to him, as Yevgeny goes to get more paper for the snowflakes, “I think he’s warming up to me.”

Mickey can’t stop laughing.

“You have a robot for a child,” Ian whispers.

“That’s what happens to the intellectual geniuses,” Mickey says, still laughing.

Ian nods, then says, “It’s all those books you gave him when he was younger.”

Mickey flips him off.

The drive back to the Gallagher house is uneventful, but once he enters, it’s a complete shock. His apartment, even the bookstore, is always pretty quiet, and Ian forgot what it was like to be caught up in all the Gallagher rush. He’s the last one to arrive—even Kev and Vee are already here—and there’s a loud “Ian!” when he walks in. There are a bunch of hugs passed around, as well as some fawning over him, but he’s accepted into the fold easily, a beer in his hands and some food in his mouth.

He falls asleep around one, and when he wakes up, it almost feels like he’s a teenager again. He can hear his siblings yelling, food cooking in the kitchen. He shifts through his bags to find his meds and heads to the bathroom.

As he spends the day with them, Ian feels as though there’s two versions of him colliding. There’s the teenage him, full of ambitions and hope and manic energy, the one who lived in this house, and there’s the him now, stable and happy. He thought that coming back would make him nostalgic, or his family might pester him, but he finds himself happy to be here, but no desire to stay. He’s carved a place for himself, somewhere of his own, and he’s happy to have both places now.

Christmas day, for some reason, is never a big deal with the Gallaghers like it is most other holidays. Ian assumes it’s because there’s already so much chaos with Christmas—a huge amount of presents for everyone, wrapping paper everywhere, food and noise and drink—that making it anymore chaotic wouldn’t benefit anyone.

Fiona and Lip both give Ian a look when Lip, Debbie, and Liam open up gifts that are books, but Ian knew they’d like those books, so he doesn’t care. After the Gallagher family opens up their gifts, they disperse a little, talking in the kitchen or cleaning up. Ian calls Mandy and Mickey to wish them a merry Christmas and a good New Year’s—Mandy is hanging out with her friends, and Mickey and Yev are watching fireworks from the roof of the bookstore. Carl and Lip had already shown the fireworks they’d stolen for a Gallagher New Year’s firework show, and Ian had laughed and scuffled with them.

Ian finds himself caught up in the next couple of days after Christmas, helping around the house and catching up with his family. He’s a bit surprised by how detached they all are—Carl, Debbie, and Liam all have plans with their friends, Fiona and Lip have work-related parties—but if anything is clear, it’s that they’re still a family.

New Year’s Eve is when they all stay together—none of them want to miss out on a Gallagher party. This time, everyone’s friends are invited over, Fiona’s colleagues and the three younger kid’s friends, Kev and V—and the house is the fullest Ian has seen it in a while.

After a while, Ian notices that he’s the only lonely one here. Not that Ian himself is lonely—he’s fine, talking with one of Lip’s coworkers named Amanda—but he’s the only person who hasn’t invited anyone else. He would’ve invited Karen, but she and her mother had plans, and all the Milkoviches are busy. He excuses himself from Amanda to go outside, where it’s not as loud (though still milling with people), and calls Mandy.

She picks up, and it’s loud on her end as well. “Ian!” she exclaims. Ian can tell by her voice that she’s on her way to getting drunk.

“Hey!” he says. “I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Years, beforehand.”

“Happy New Years!” she says, and there’s a chorus behind her. She laughs. “Oh, I wish you could be here, Ian. I miss your freckles and your red hair.”

Ian laughs. “I miss you too.”

“Are you okay?” she says. “It sounds quiet on your end.”

“I’m fine. I just went outside to hear you better.”

“Oh, good. I didn’t want you to be like Mickey, you know, spending New Year’s all alone.”

Ian startles. “Wait, Mickey’s by himself?”

“And I hope you have someone to kiss on New Years! I have my eye on this one girl with purple hair—”

“Wait, Mandy, go back. Mickey’s by himself?”

“Yeah. He said something about Yev hanging out with his friends? Something like that.” Mandy laughs. “At least now he can get drunk tonight!”

Ian’s mind races. “Mandy, if you’re not kissing that purple-haired girl at New Year’s, I will be very disappointed in you.”

Mandy laughs. “I didn’t need the motivation, but thank you!”

Ian wishes her another Happy New Year’s and hangs up, his mind still racing. He glances at the clock and thinks that if he gets the car—if he races—he could make it back in time. He makes his way back into the house, pushing his way through the throng of people until he finds Fiona.

“Fiona, I’m leaving,” he says, raising his voice over the noise.

Fiona looks upset until Ian tells her his plan, and then she just looks amused. She taps the side of Ian’s head and says, “Now, where did you get ideas like that?”

Ian shrugs and says with a wide grin, “I guess I read too many books.” Fiona smacks him on the arm, crushes him in one last hug, and sends him on his way.

Ian tells Lip next, and Lip laughs and says that there’s no night like tonight to do something like that. “Except maybe Valentine’s Day,” he says. “I don’t think you want to wait that long, huh?”

“Definitely not,” Ian says, and clasps Lip’s hand and hugs Lip as well.

He finally manages to leave, his stomach fluttering with nerves, but mostly it’s excitement. It’s late enough for people to already be celebrating in their houses, so while Ian drives, it’s pretty clear, with minimum traffic. There must be someone on his side, he thinks. Some god or deity—maybe Aphrodite.

Ian makes it back to the city around 11:30, and it doesn’t take long for him to make it to the bookstore. He parks in the alleyway, even though he’s not even sure if that’s allowed, and quickly makes his way to Mickey’s door. He pounds on it, hoping that Mickey hasn’t fallen asleep on him. That would really be a flaw in Ian’s plans, and they’d gone so well so far.

Ian needn’t worry; he hears someone coming down the steps about two minutes later. When the door opens, Mickey’s expression shifts from annoyed to surprised. Ian’s must be the same, because Mickey’s wearing glasses.

“Ian? What the fuck are you doing?”

“You’re wearing glasses,” Ian says, which is totally not what he meant to say at all. His voice is slightly higher than usual. “How—I’ve known you for months now and I never knew you wore glasses.”

Mickey’s eyebrows are raised in disbelief. “That’s what you came to talk to me about?”

“No, I—” Ian suddenly feels absolutely ridiculous. “Mandy told me that Yevgeny wasn’t here.”

Mickey looks to the side. “His friends were throwing a party,” Mickey says. “I wasn’t gonna tell him no.” Mickey gives Ian a once-over. “Is that why you’re here?”

Ian wants to take the easy way out, say yes, that’s why, but he forces himself to say, “No. No, I’m—I’m finally doing something about this. About us.”

Mickey leans against the doorframe, a small smile on his face. “Are you?”

“I know the ball doesn’t drop for, like, another twenty minutes,” Ian says, “but can I kiss you?”

Ian can see when the words finally hit Mickey; he grips the doorframe a little harder, swallows, and then he’s reaching for Ian, pulling him inside. Mickey presses Ian against the door and kisses him, and Ian expels a shaky breath, bringing his hands up to Mickey’s waist to steady him. The kiss is a bit clumsy at first, but there’s a shift—Mickey tilts his head a little further back, and Ian pulls Mickey flush against his body—and suddenly the air around them changes. Ian doesn’t know whether to laugh with the pleasure of it, or to moan at the feel of Mickey’s mouth against his—the answer is decided for him when Mickey presses his tongue against the seam of Ian’s lips.

“Could we—” Ian starts, but pulling away only makes Mickey focus on Ian’s neck, sucking on a spot below Ian’s jaw. Ian whispers, “Oh,” arching back into Mickey, and Mickey’s fingers dig into Ian’s shoulder blades. “Mickey,” Ian says, trying to focus, but his mind can only focus on fuck and Mickey’s mouth.  

When Mickey is satisfied with the mark he’s left on Ian’s neck, he gives Ian’s jaw a small bite, then says, “We should go upstairs. There’s a bed.”

That’s what Ian was trying to say, but he only nods this time. He takes Mickey’s hand and lets himself be led upstairs, into a room Ian hadn’t formerly seen. When they enter the bedroom, Mickey takes off his glasses and puts them on a dresser—a massive disappointment in Ian’s opinion, but he knows they’re gone for practicality reasons—and when Mickey kisses him again, Ian’s nose doesn’t awkwardly bump into the glasses.

“We shouldn’t done this fucking ages ago,” Mickey mutters, his nose ghosting along Ian’s.

Ian smiles and kisses Mickey again, bites into his bottom lip. Mickey turns plaint against him.

“Are you going to complain all night?” Ian asks, working his hands to the edges of Mickey’s shirt and pulling it over his head.

“If you’re not good enough—” Ian interrupts him with another kiss, makes his one hard, bruising, desperate. Makes it make up for all the time lost. “—then I will,” Mickey finishes on a gasp.

Mickey draws Ian’s shirt over his head, he’s undoing Ian’s jeans when Ian says, “I am.”

Mickey gives him a heated look, eyebrow raised and a small smirk curving his mouth.

Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s neck, draws him into another hard, wet kiss, and says when they pull away, “I’m definitely good enough.”

Mickey laughs and pushes Ian on the bed.

Ian walks into the store two days later, trying to hide his excitement and hoping that no one else is in the store. He’s both right and wrong—no one else seems to be in, but the only person at the register is Yevgeny, sitting on the table and reading a book.

Yevgeny looks up when he enters, stares at Ian for a moment longer, and then returns to his book. Ian smiles to himself and walks up to him and, once he’s reached Yev, says, “Is your dad around?”

Yevgeny sighs, like being pulled away from his book and into a discussion is extremely taxing. “He’s around, I don’t know where,” he says.

“That’s fine, I’ll wait.” Yevgeny returns to his book, and Ian glances at the title. It’s Jurassic Park.

Yev looks up at Ian after a moment or so and says, almost hesitantly, “I told him to put the ring in a book in the romance section.”

Ian bursts out laughing. “I don’t think we’re at that point yet, kid.” Yev watches Ian for another moment, eyebrow raised exactly like Mickey, and shrugs, returning to his book. Ian considers that some strange type of approval, so he accepts it, smiling to himself. A ring, honestly.  

Mickey comes from the back a moment later, his face breaking into a pleased smile when he sees Ian. He’s wearing his glasses, something he’d started doing more when he realized how much Ian loved them. He says, “Hey,” in such a warm voice that it makes something sweet curl in Ian’s chest. Mickey presses a quick kiss to Ian’s mouth, because Yevgeny’s right there, but Yevgeny makes a small huffing sound anyways.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey says, ruffling Yev’s hair. “You’re still my favorite, you know.”

Yevgeny smiles at that, closing his book and turning around to face Mickey. “Soccer tryouts are in two weeks,” he says, his voice full of excitement.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey says, smiling at him. “I guess we’re gonna have to practice every night.”

Yevgeny nods his head quickly. “I gotta be better than David,” he says. “He’s such an asshole about it.” Ian chokes, but Mickey looks unsurprised. “I’ll go ask Aunt Mandy is she can come,” Yevgeny continues. He places his book down in front of Apollo and hops off the counter to head over to Mandy's. 

Mickey tells Ian to “shut the fuck up and stop laughing,” and when that doesn’t work, he kisses Ian. That definitely works.

When they pull apart, Mickey says, “Dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” Ian says, giving Mickey another kiss. “I could just stay here? I’m not doing anything else tonight, and it’d be kind of pointless for me to leave now.”

Mickey says, “As long as you’re not a distraction.”

“I never am,” Ian says, and Mickey just laughs.

Ian flips Mickey off and walks over to his chair, setting his stuff down and sitting back in the chair. He leans his head back and smiles to himself for a moment, then reaches out to one of the shelves and picks out a random book.

Later, Mickey will come to him, pull him up from his spot, whispering, “Yevgeny’s staying at Mandy’s right now.” They’ll find one of the small, darkened corners of the bookstore and spend most of the afternoon there, kissing and whispering to each other.

For now, Ian cracks open the spine of the book and begins reading.