When Ian walks outside he expects to see Fiona maybe, or even Mandy coming to get him and cause some trouble - anything but Mickey Milkovich standing there, leaning against a sleek black mustang like this is some kind of 80s movie and he’s the heart throb-y bad boy and Ian is Molly Ringwald.
Mickey looks up at him and flicks his cigarette to the ground before opening the driver’s side door and getting back inside. He does all of this without saying a word to Ian. Ian just stands there for a moment, dumbfounded. Finally, he pulls out a crumpled receipt and a ‘Go Army’ pen from his back pocket and uses his thigh to jot down seven words: “With Mickey. Back in morning. Don’t worry.”
He passes the paper to Jonny Q, who had come to get him while he was trying to fall asleep over the sound of Lip’s snoring and who’s still standing by the door expectantly. Ian promises him his pudding for the rest of his time here if goes inside and gives it to Lip. Everybody knows Jonny Q. fucking loves pudding because he’s just a weirdo like that, so Ian doesn’t think he’ll have to worry about Lip getting his message.
“Ay, what the fuck are you waiting for?” Mickey shouts, looking up at him from the driver’s side window. His elbow is sticking far out of the window and Ian is suddenly aware of how – well, cool Mickey is, in that asshole neighborhood thug kinda way. “Hurry up and get in already before you get caught and I’m out fifty bucks.”
Ian jogs around to the other side of the car and hops inside. Mickey makes no delay in driving away, the tires screeching obnoxiously. So much for not getting caught, Ian thinks.
The seats are warm, smooth leather, and Ian leans back, feeling like he can relax for the first time since that godawful woman stood in his living room and took his life from being kinda-fucked-up-but-still-ok to really-not-ok-at-all.
“Fifty bucks?” Ian says finally, looking over at Mickey.
Mickey shrugs. “Paid that ugly fuck to keep his mouth shut.”
“Thanks,” Ian says, smiling. He’d been tired when he lied down earlier, more tired than he’d been in a while, weighed down with fear and worry and anxiety, but now he feels he’ll never need to sleep again.
“Yeah whatever,” Mickey says. “Got this car for the night, figured it’d be kinda lame to cruise around by myself.”
Mickey’s dark hair is slicked back and Ian is filled with the crazy sense that he’s in a movie, or dreaming, or dreaming that he’s in a movie. Mickey’s chewing idly on the white string of the tan hoodie he’s wearing, and Ian thinks about a hoodie he used to have that’s similar to it, one that he can’t find anymore, but he doesn’t say anything.
“So whose car is this anyway?” Ian asks. “And don’t say it’s stolen because I swear to God I will get out now and walk back. I almost went down for grand theft auto once, I’m not doing that shit again. Fiona would fucking kill me-“
“Calm down grandma, it’s a friend of a friend’s.”
Ian stares at him.
“Uh huh,” Ian says flatly
“Ok, so this mook owes me money and I told him I’d chop off fifty bucks if he let me take his ride for the night. Happy now?” Mickey says, and he’s almost laughing, like he thinks it’s funny how Ian knows when he’s bullshitting. The night air is cool as it blows through the windows and Ian feels delirious with happiness, filled with the knowledge that even if the rest of his life seems to be going to shit and he’s sleeping in a room with 25 other guys with criminal records longer than his ---, he still has this, still has moments with Mickey that make him feel like the world Is perfect and his life is grand.
“What’re you smiling for?” Mickey barks, trying to threaten him but Ian can see he’s kinda smiling too.
“Can’t a guy smile?” Ian says, and turns to the window, closing his eyes against the breeze and also kind of trying to hide how big his grin is because he’s actually kind of embarrassed at how he tried to stop smiling and he seriously can’t. He opens his eyes and looks out at the houses in the sleepy neighborhood they’re cruising through, the porch lights of the otherwise dark homes like lanterns floating on a dark unmoving lake. “Nice night.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Mickey says. “Had some stuff I needed to pick up. Not exactly a good idea to ride the L with a kilo on you.”
Ian ignores his words – they sound scripted, like Mickey’s reciting his alibi to a jury of his peers. Mickey’s been in juvie twice already so Ian thinks he probably sucked at lying to them too.
“Where we going?” Ian asks, turning to him.
“Did you hear what I said?” Mickey narrows his eyes at him, like he knows Ian doesn’t buy his story and it’s starting to piss him off.
“Mhm,” Ian says, when an idea comes to him. “Hey, let me drive. I know somewhere we could go. I think you’d like it, it’s awesome.”
“Fuck no you can’t drive,” Mickey says, the notion apparently so ridiculous that he’s actually laughing as he makes a right turn. The motion is smooth – Ian doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of riding in nice cars. People think the appeal is all about looks but there’s a difference in how they feel. Some cars feel like wings skimming the surface of water. There’s nothing like it, and Ian is filled with how grateful he is that he’s in this car with someone he can really enjoy it with.
“Do you even have your license? No way I’m letting you crash this thing.” The sound of Mickey speaking seems to fill the night, nothing but his voice and the cold crisp air. Ian wants to breathe it all in and never let it out.
“Fuck you, I can drive just fine,” Ian says. He reaches over and grabs for the wheel, like he’s just going to slide over and push Mickey out the way and take over. He’s not, obviously, but Mickey laughs and elbows him away and it’s fun and nice and Ian likes how it feels to be in alone in an enclosed space with Mickey and have an excuse to touch him.
“Why can’t you just tell me where it is?” Mickey asks after Ian has settled down and returned to his side of the car.
“Because it’s a surprise,” Ian says. Mickey rolls his eyes at him and starts fiddling with the radio. A few minutes later they pull over at a gas station, where Mickey gets out without saying a thing to Ian and comes back with a two liter of Mountain Dew, a package of peanut M&Ms and a bag of sunflower seeds. When he comes back to the car he stands at the passenger door. It’s not until he widens his eyes at Ian that he catches on. Ian slides over to the driver’s seat to the sound of Mickey’s exasperated ‘oh my god,’ which, Ian is aware, means that Mickey is wondering yet again how he survived infancy as he slides easily into the passenger seat.
“We get pulled over, I’m taking off and leaving you to take the fall,” Mickey says, as Ian pulls out of the parking lot and into the nearly empty street with practiced ease. Ian knows he is a good driver. It’s one of his best skills actually, and he pretends, even to himself, that he’s not hoping Mickey will notice.
“I’d expect nothing less of you, Mickey,” Ian says lightly, distracted as he tries to remember the quickest way to get to where he’d like to take Mickey.
“I’m serious,” Mickey says, and Ian hears the faint hiss of the bottle of soda being opened and glances over just in time to see Mickey chugging from the bottle. His eyes stall on his throat and the movement of the muscles there before he forces his eyes back onto the road.
“You couldn’t have got anything for me?” Ian says. Ian feels something hit his lap and looks down at the package of M&Ms there. He decides to push his luck. “Open it for me?”
He doesn’t look over at Mickey but he can feel his eyes on him, can see him staring, chewing on his lip, from the corner of his eye. Ian hears the thump of Mickey setting the two liter of soda on the floor between his legs and feels Mickey’s hand in his lap. His heart starts to beat fast – Mickey’s hand slides right past the candy and grasps his inner thigh, a firm, strong hold that makes Ian’s blood feel like it’s just lines of gasoline in his veins that someone just threw a match onto. Without meaning to, his foot presses on the gas just a tiny bit harder.
Mickey pulls away far too quickly, snagging the candy back in the process. Ian wants to ask why, wants to beg for that hand back actually, but he figures maybe it’s best that he did move – they’re going 15 over the speed limit and Ian makes a conscious effort to slow down.
“Sorry,” Ian says, and looks over at Mickey again, who rolls his eyes and tears open the bag of candy with his teeth. He pours like half of it into his own mouth before holding his hand out by Ian’s face, waving it around in a way that Ian is pretty sure is meant to be obnoxious. Ian reaches out a hand to push him away or grab the candy but Mickey just bats it away.
“Open your fucking mouth,” he says simply, voice dangerously low in a way that goes straight to Ian’s cock. Ian obeys without hesitation, and relishes the brush of Mickey’s fingers against his chin and lips when he pours the candy in.
“Thanks,” Ian says around a mouthful of chocolate after Mickey has pulled away.
"Whatever.” Mickey rolls the window down just enough to toss the wrapper out.
“Littering?” Ian says, letting a flood of judgment into his words because he kinda likes baiting Mickey when they’re alone so he’ll go off on a rant.
“Man, fuck mother earth. That bitch never did shit for me,” Mickey says, never one to disappoint. Ian laughs.
“Yo, where the fuck we going?” Mickey asks after they’ve been driving for a while. Ian has driven them right out of the city, into the kind of towns that have corn fields and cows instead of bus stops and liquor stores. It’s the kind of stuff Ian is willing to bet Mickey didn’t even know they had in this state – because to Mickey, the Southside is all there is to the world. Ian glances at the fuel indicator and is glad they have a full tank to waste before Mickey has to return it to whoever he had to threaten to get it.
“Just hold your horses,” Ian says. “We’re almost there.”
“You’re not taking me out to the middle of buttfuck nowhere to murder me, are you?” Mickey says, in between gulps of soda. “Because I’ve seen that movie. All those fuckers die in the end.”
“I’m not trying to murder you, Mickey,” Ian says, and a thought comes unbidden to his mind: murder dat ass. It’s so ridiculous and the words are in Kev’s voice and he can feel himself blushing, but he glances over at Mickey and it’s clear that he hasn’t noticed. He’s drinking soda and looking out the window like the cornfields and rows of soybeans – basically, nature in all its uninterrupted glory - disgust him.
“Good. Cause you’d fucking fail,” Mickey says. “Man, those assholes in the movies are so unbelievably dumb. Like how brain-dead do you have to be to pick up a hitchhiker in the dead of night when you got two women in the car and a guy who weighs less than they do? Fucking retarded.”
“I know, right?” Ian says, grinning, because he loves when Mickey gets started on tangents out of nowhere, and they get started talking about the stupidest horror movies they’ve ever seen and what they’d do if some asshole with a chainsaw had the balls to try and fuck with them. They don’t stop talking until Ian pulls onto a side road shrouded in overgrowth and Mickey looks around like he’s expecting a team of boogeymen to pop out any second now.
“Where the fuck are you taking me?” he asks again.
“Shut up, you’ll like it,” Ian says, then looks over at him and smiles. “I promise.”
When they pull up to the clearing, Ian can’t help watching Mickey’s face as he looks around. He’s pretty sure he’ll like it, but you can never really tell with Mickey.
They’re at a clearing with a steep drop-off, overlooking the Chicago River. Below them is what looks like a never-ending stretch of dark water, lined by clumps of shadows that reveal themselves to be trees in the light of day. In the distance, too far away to be anything more than ghostly stacked lanterns, are the city lights.
It’s fucking beautiful. Ian loves it here. He never gets to come anymore - he’s actually only ever been here once before. He was way down on the riverbank that time. He was about 12 and on an ill-advised overnight fishing trip with Frank and a couple of his buddies. Ian would have drowned while they were all passed out if Lip hadn’t heard him screaming and pulled him out. He would have still frozen to death if Lip hadn’t stolen the keys from Frank’s unmoving form – Frank, who didn’t get up when Ian called for help, who mumbled a slurred ‘fuck off’ when Lip tried to jostle him awake before taking Ian and bundling him up in both their coats and driving them back home. Lip was only 13. They didn’t know how Frank and his friends got home and they didn’t care.
Ian shakes himself out of the memory to find Mickey staring at him. Mickey doesn’t have to ask, because Ian starts talking.
“Went here with my dad once,” Ian says. Mickey nods, breathes out an unsurprised “Ah,” as if, having met Frank, he knows exactly where this is going.
“Wasn’t exactly a fun time, but I really love it here,” Ian says. “It’s kind of beautiful, you know?”
“All the dirty ass river water and mud?”
“Yeah,” Ian laughs. “I like it. You don’t like it? Come on, just look at that view. It’s just the river stretching out both ways, far as you can see. And the mud and water are way down there. Up here it’s just grass. So it’s like you can see it and be near it but you get to see so much more of it from up here.”
Mickey shrugs. “It’s alright.”
Ian smiles. ‘Alright’ was better than ‘wow this is really stupid.’
“Still looks like some place you’d dump a body,” Mickey says.
“No seriously, I think I’ve been here with my brothers once to-“
“So anyway,” Ian says loudly and deliberately. “I thought it’d be cool to come up here because it’s quiet and kinda deserted and we could hang out or something, maybe smoke some shit if you got anything on you.”
Mickey shakes his head. They both ignore how weird it was for Ian to say all of that so loudly, something that’s usually so secret between them.
“Naw man, I wasn’t trying to get pulled over with an o-z,” Mickey says. Ian nods.
“That’s cool,” he says, then adds - “not really in the mood to smoke anyway.”
“So what, you here trying to seduce me, firecrotch?” Mickey says, leaning against the open window and turning to Ian. If Ian has seen anything sexier than Mickey Milkovich smirking at him like that from across an empty car, he can’t think of it right now. “Take me up to your lil’ secret spot and take advantage of me? Is this like a thing for you or what?”
“I’ve never been here with anyone else,” Ian says, drunk with how good it feels to tell the truth to someone. He doesn’t want to stop talking, so he keeps going. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid actually, but I’ve always kind of wanted to go back. Had this memory in my head of what it looked like, how cool it was, all the water and the trees and everything, and I guess I always wanted to come back to see if it was like I remembered it.”
“So it live up to the hype?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah.” Ian re-settles against the seat, his body relaxing against the pleasantly warm leather. He looks Mickey in the eye, Mickey, who’s watching him, swiping at his bottom lip with his tongue and waiting for an answer. “Better than I remember it.”
It hasn’t been that long since Mickey kissed him. It hasn’t happened again and Ian doesn’t know if that’s because they just haven’t had the chance or it really was a fluke. He wants to find out – he’s not sure how, but he’s going to find out – when Mickey shifts and twists and pushes his head out of the window, closing his eyes. All Ian can do is stare at the long line of his body, stretched out before him, the t-shirt underneath the open hoodie stretching against his chest. Ian can’t look away from the way it rides up just a little, revealing the soft skin of Mickey’s belly and the angry pink creases in his skin caused by his jeans and belt buckle. Ian feels so turned on by the sight that it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to hop across the seat and devour Mickey whole.
“Shit, this air feels so fucking good,” Mickey’s saying, his eyes still closed. It’s kind of an interesting sight, Mickey without the back drop of the Southside and instead breathing in the country air.
“It does,” Ian says, still staring at his skin. Mickey pulls his head back in and proceeds to pop open the glove box, rooting around through a stranger’s crap for who-knows-what. ‘Score,’ he mumbles, and pulls out a box of cigars. When he holds them up to Ian, Ian can’t help pulling a face.
“I’m good,” Ian says, shaking his head.
“Pansy,” Mickey says, but he just tosses the box on the dash board and goes for his cigarettes instead. He lights one and hands it to Ian before he even begins to smoke it himself.
If Ian is in the Twilight Zone he doesn’t want to leave, no matter what the catch is.
“Thanks,” Ian says, and Mickey nods. “Not just for the cigarette, but, you know, getting me out and everything.”
“Yeah, well, it’s only for tonight,” Mickey says, and Ian can’t tell if he’s just stating facts or if he’s apologizing.
“Yeah, but still,” Ian says. “I feel like I could go crazy in there. I just hate that it’s like this, you know? Me and Lip’ll be fine but it’s Debbie, Carl and Liam I’m worried about. Did you know they split them up?” Mickey shakes his head and takes the cigarette when Ian offers it. “It’s bullshit. Now Carl and Liam are with some snobby ass gay couple from the North Side and Debbie is on her own.” Ian feels the heat rushing to his head, the anger growing inside of him quicker than he’d like. “I hate it.”
Mickey is quiet for a moment, and Ian stares out at the water, feeling his good mood being crowded out by the ever-persistent push of reality.
“Shit, man,” Mickey says. Ian looks at him and Mickey looks back, a strangely sympathetic look on his face. “That fucking blows. I know I’d be going crazy if Mandy had to stay with some random asshole and I couldn’t be there to make sure nothing bad went down.”
It’s not until Ian nods that he realizes he’s been clenching his teeth. “I know Carl can look after Liam, but Debbie.. Debbie’s smart, and she’s strong, but she’s still just a kid.” He doesn’t have to finish, because they both know how fucked up people can be.
“You want to break her out?” Mickey says after silence has fallen over them. A laugh escapes from Ian, and he looks at Mickey in shock.
“You know, find out where she is and just take her,” Mickey says. “Fuck the system.”
Ian shakes his head. “Nah, that’d only make things worse. I’m hoping this doesn’t last too long. I know Fiona’s on it – she’s gonna find out where Debs is and everyone else. We’re gonna be back home soon. I guess I just gotta be patient.”
“Suit yourself,” Mickey says, scratching at his eyebrow with the hand holding the cigarette. “I say fuck patience, protect your blood. Get ‘em back and fuck up anyone who gets in your way.”
“Sometimes a little diplomacy goes a long way,” Ian says. “Thanks, though.”
“Yeah man,” Mickey says, in a voice that makes Ian wonder if Mickey knows he’d do the same for him. Ian thinks of raising that money for Mandy, how he doesn’t think Mickey knows about any of it, even now. He pushes the thought away though, because there’s no way he’s going to be the one to tell him – not right now, anyway. He knows what Terry’s done to Mandy, and he hates the thought of Mickey being around someone like that, someone who would hurt his own children.
“You ever think of moving out of Terry’s house?” he says instead, and he knows as soon as he says it that that was the stupidest possible thing he could have brought up. The reality of Terry’s name spoken just changes something in Mickey’s mood – it gets darker, tenser, like Mickey is clenching up, squaring his shoulders to take a punch.
“And go where, genius?” Mickey says after a long moment. “Do us both a favor and stop asking stupid questions.”
“You could stay with me,” Ian says. Once he’s said the words it feels like the beginning of a car crash, Ian speeding toward a concrete wall on a rain-wet highway at night.
“Please,” Mickey says, scorn practically dripping from his words. Ian tries not to take it personally. “You don’t even live there right now.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll be able to go back home soon, and then – maybe after that you could –“
“What? Move in with your whole big ass family?” Mickey scoffs. “There even any room in that shoe box?”
“We could make room,” Ian says, feeling strange and desperate, because now that he’s spoken what he hasn’t even allowed himself to fully think about, he wants Mickey to say that he wants it too, that, even if it can’t really happen, it’d still be really nice if it could.
“Nah, I’m good,” Mickey says, and without another word grabs the nearly empty bottle of soda and pushes open the door. For a horrible moment he thinks Mickey is just going to leave altogether, just walk home or steal a car or something and drive there, but he just slams the door and rounds the front of the car to lean against the hood. Ian allows himself a moment to feel completely sorry for himself because he’s such an idiot, always wanting so much of what he can’t fully have. He sits there looking at Mickey’s body, forcibly relaxed with one leg propped up on the bumper and draining the dregs of soda. Ian allows himself to sit there and look at him and feel without holding back from himself just how much he wants all of Mickey, everywhere and all the time. It lasts only a moment – he lets it last only a moment, that moment where he wants things to be different so badly that he could cry, before he swallows it all down. He takes one last pull off of his cigarette before he tosses it out the window and goes outside.
He fully expects the subject to be changed but as soon as his butt hits the hood Mickey is the one to start speaking, like he’s been waiting for Ian to come out because there’s stuff he wants to say.
“What are you doing.” Mickey says. He sounds angry, and his words don’t sound like a question at all.
“What do you mean-“
“You know what I mean. This whole nice guy, let-me-save-you shtick,” Mickey says, words escaping through a sneer. He throws the bottle far enough that it tumbles off the precipice. They hear it fall, bouncing against the dirt and rocks. It’s a long way to the bank, even longer to the water. “I didn’t come here for this shit.”
“What, do you want me to pretend like I don’t give a shit about you? Would that make you feel better?” Ian says. He takes off the button-down he’s wearing over his t-shirt, feeling hot now that he’s outside, and maybe now that they’re so close to yelling. He tosses his shirt onto the hood with more force than he strictly means to and rounds on Mickey. “Well guess what, I’m not gonna do that shit. I care about you Mickey. Don’t make me out to be the bad guy because of that.”
Mickey looks up at him once, face unreadable, before he swipes at his lip with his thumb and in one swift movement, pushes himself off the car and begins pacing. He stops after a few turns and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and standing there smoking it, looking out at the water with his back to Ian, every muscle in his body looking stiff and drawn tight.
Ian forces himself to stay glued to the car, even though he wants to reach out and touch Mickey, shake him, make him realize things that Ian already knows. But Ian forces himself to stay there, and just watches Mickey as he smokes, his sporadic movements reminding him of a butterfly flapped in a jar.
“Fuck,” Mickey says finally. He rounds on Ian and throws the cigarette on the ground. He stomps on it, then stomps right back up to Ian, getting in his face like he’s looking for a fight. “Stop acting like you can fix anything, because you can’t and you fucking know you can’t. So don’t sit here coming up with ideas you know won’t work.”
Ian stands there feeling angry and guilty and shocked because that’s probably the longest sentence about feelings he’s ever heard come out of Mickey’s mouth.
Ian steps closer to him, feeling like he’s creeping up to a bear with its foot in a trap. He expects Mickey to push him away, but he just stands there, and now that he’s closer Ian can see how tired Mickey looks. He thinks about the bottle of Mountain Dew and the two empty cans of red bull that were in the cup holders when he got in the car and he wonders how long it’s been since Mickey has slept, and considers that theoretical number against the fact that Mickey is standing here with him right now, at a clearing overlooking the Chicago river and arguing with Ian.
He brings up a hand and cups it around the back of Mickey’s head. Mickey tries to duck away, but Ian holds on, using the force of Mickey’s movements to pull him closer. When Mickey tries to push him away again and Ian stumbles back, he still doesn’t let go, just pulls him closer.
“The fuck off of me, Gallagher,” Mickey says, his voice low, glaring up at Ian.
“No,” Ian says, and squeezes once.
“The fuck are you doing,” Mickey says, grabbing at Ian’s hand and trying to peel it off of his head. It doesn’t work, and Ian doesn’t answer his question. It’s a stupid question because they both know exactly what’s going on here, but Ian knows that Mickey at least has to say it. Mickey has to go through these motions, so Ian lets him. He doesn’t like it, and he wishes he didn’t, but he lets him.
“I want to kiss you,” Ian says, moving his face closer to Mickey, using the hand on the back of his neck to try and gently guide Mickey’s face toward him. He fights it, but Ian is stronger than him when he’s not really trying, so Mickey’s face is inches from Ian’s even as he stares everywhere but back at him. “I want to kiss you so bad I can’t even fucking take it, Mickey.”
“Shut the hell up,” Mickey says. “Stop saying stupid shit like that.” He touches Ian like he’s going to push him or hit him, but instead the hand just grips Ian’s side, hard enough to hurt. Ian closes the gap between them even more, pushing his body against Mickey’s so their chests are touching.
“You said you didn’t come here to listen to me talk about how I give a shit about you,” Ian says, staring into Mickey’s eyes. “Then what’d you come here for? For me to fuck you in the back seat of some asshole’s mustang so you can go home and act this didn’t mean anything? Like it was just a quick fuck to you? Like you wouldn’t rather be sleeping right now but instead you went through all that trouble just to come bust me out for a night?”
Mickey is glaring at him, his eyes dangerous, like an animal’s when it’s backed into the corner of a cage and the only way to get out is to kill the human blocking the door.
“Don’t act like you fucking know everything because you don’t,” Mickey says. It’s quiet out here, so quiet that it almost feels like they’re the only two people alive for miles. “You don’t know shit, alright.”
“I know more than you think I do, Mickey,” Ian says. He grabs Mickey’s arm and turns them around, slamming Mickey into the car, his back against the hood. He leans against Mickey, trapping him between his body and the sleek warm metal of the hood of the car. He still has his hand twisted in the hair at the nape of Mickey’s neck and he squeezes again, just once, before he speaks.
“I know you didn’t do go through all that trouble just because you felt like fucking someone on a Thursday night. I know you kissed me in the driveway of that drunk old lady’s house because you wanted to, not just because you thought I wanted you to. And I know, right now-“ Ian presses himself against Mickey, doesn’t miss the way his eyes go unfocused and his body goes just a little bit slack at the feel of Ian’s hard thigh against his cock. “Right now, you’re hard as a rock because no matter how much you fight it you love it when I stop fucking around with you and take the choice right out of your hands, don't you?”
Mickey’s eyebrows shoot together, his face fierce with anger, but before he can speak Ian crushes his mouth against Mickey’s. Ian relishes that moment, where Mickey’s body goes from tense and prepared for a fight to tense in a different way, ready for another kind of fight altogether, one they both enjoy. Ian covers Mickey with his body, pulling one of Mickey’s legs up so that they can he can rub against him.
Mickey tries to get up, and Ian pushes him back down, and he can see the effect that has on Mickey, the way his breath hitches in his throat and his hips rise up to press against Ian’s as soon as his back hits the car. Ian forces his head to the side and kisses the pale expanse of neck there, once, twice, lower, before he has to force himself to pull away so that he can tear off his shirt. Mickey sits up on his elbows, staring him down, hair disheveled and looking slightly drunk.
Once his shirt is off he leans against Mickey again, who follows the lead of his body and lies back down almost instantly. Ian braces himself with a forearm on either side of Mickey’s head, not wasting any time in kissing Mickey again. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it, the way Mickey kisses him, like he’s trying to leave a bruise somewhere he can’t quite reach. Ian feel like he doesn’t has to hold back anymore, doesn’t have to hide how much he gets off on just kissing Mickey. He licks and sucks at his lips as if they’re dipped in sugar. He pulls away to take a breath and buries his face in Mickey’s neck, kissing and sucking at the hot skin there and delighting in the way Mickey underneath him. He can feel Mickey digging his fingers into his waist and Ian moans into the warm, wet skin at his mouth.
“Take off your clothes,” Ian murmurs, then starts to do it for him when Mickey isn’t instantly naked. He’s starting to push the hoodie off of his shoulder when he realizes something that makes him feel like he’s going to come undone completely: Mickey is wearing a hoodie that is probably his and it makes Ian feel like he needs to be inside Mickey, right the fuck now, or any variation of that idea.
He leaves Mickey’s clothes on and pushes Mickey’s hands away when he tries to pull his shirt off anyway.
“Don’t,” Ian says, and slides down his body, pushing Mickey’s shirt up to his chest to lick and kiss at his belly, all the while his fingers feverishly working to undo Mickey’s belt. One short glance upward tells him that Mickey’s face is facing the sky, eyes squeezed shut, and his back is arched to the point that Ian can easily slide a hand underneath him to the small of his back as he sucks a hickey into the fleshy skin just above his belly button.
He finally gets his jeans undone and lifts Mickey up just a bit so he can slide them down – Mickey moves like he can’t do it fast enough. His cock springs forward and it’s barely out in the night air before Ian captures it again, sucking it into his mouth like he needs air and Mickey’s cock is hogging it all.
Above him, Mickey’s body jerks and he lets out a harsh “fuck!” that makes Ian feel impossibly hard. Mickey’s hands fly to his hair, twisting and pulling hard, and it turns Ian on so much – the feel of Mickey’s hard cock in his mouth almost choking him and Mickey’s unforgiving hands palming his head and tugging desperately at his hair. He doesn’t want to ever stop. He has one hand planted firmly on Mickey’s stomach and he can feel every spasm, every jerk, every short breath, every muscle working when Mickey jerks or thrusts up into his mouth, and Ian can’t do it anymore. He plunges his hand upward and into Mickey’s mouth.
Mickey sucks obediently, like he was waiting for it, like he wants it, and he doesn’t fight it at all when Ian pulls off of his cock. He obeys Ian’s hand, urging him to turn around while he unbuckles his own pants with the other. Mickey leans against the hood of the car, one leg out of his pants, and Ian pulls a condom out of his back pocket before he lets his jeans pool around his ankles. Ian rolls the condom on and pushes his body against Mickey’s because he likes the feel of their bodies together, even when he’s not inside of him yet.
Ian backs up for a second to grab hold of Mickey’s right leg, right in the crook of his knee, before he lifts it up higher against the car, so he has better access to what he’s desperately trying to get to. It’s one, two fingers in, before Mickey’s fast shuddering breaths start to get to him and he pushes Mickey’s leg up higher still, spreading him impossibly wider so that he can finally push his cock inside.
The sound that comes out of Mickey’s mouth when Ian is fully sheathed is enough to make Ian decide that now isn’t the time to hold back. He grabs one of Mickey’s hips and plants his other hand on the back of his lifted thigh and plunges into him. Mickey pillows his face in his forearm to hide his expressions maybe or muffle the sounds that are coming out of his mouth but it doesn’t work because Ian can hear every word in that string of sounds flowing out of Mickey’s mouth, every ‘fuck’ and ‘yes’ and ‘harder’ and it’s driving him absolutely crazy. Mickey doesn’t usually say much in the form of words when they fuck, and Ian doesn’t know if it’s the night air or the fact that they’re so far away from the Southside that no one could hear them even if Mickey yelled out his name as loud as he possibly could, but Mickey is being talkative, cursing like a sailor and it’s everything Ian didn’t know he wanted.
They fuck against that warm car on a cool night, Mickey’s breath shuddering out a steady ‘fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck’ with every thrust that sends him sliding against the sweat-slick metal of the car.
It’s when Mickey tenses underneath him, arching his back and working a hand underneath himself so roughly that it’s like he can’t stand not to touch himself any longer, that Ian finally comes, hard and quick. Mickey is spasming underneath him, and Ian uses the hand still against Mickey’s hip to knead his skin until Mickey stills underneath, nothing but his heaving back and panting breathes.
The come-down makes Ian feel like a leaf floating down from a branch to land in a field of fucking flowers. There’s no way he’s saying that to Mickey though, so he just slumps against him and sighs and says “Shit, that was so fucking good.” He turns his head, burrowing his face into the clothes covering Mickey’s back. Mickey, for his part, doesn’t disagree.
Mickey lets him lie like that for about twenty seconds before he elbows him in the stomach. Ian takes the hint and slides off. He pulls off the condom and pulls on his clothes, turning away to let Mickey reassemble himself.
He checks his watch – it’s not even 3 a.m. yet. He looks at Mickey, who’s walked over to the rickety wooden gate at the edge of the drop off and is peering over it as he finishes buckling his belt.
“Long way down, isn’t it-“
Mickey turns around, and before Ian can even think really, Mickey is on him, one hand grabbing his hip and the other grasping the side of his face as Mickey kisses him, pushing them both back into the car so that the back of Ian’s knees crash into the bumper. The kiss is messy and wet, but it’s the most passionate kiss Ian has ever had and he is literally breathless when Mickey pulls away and walks to the driver’s side door without a word.
Ian stands there, feeling like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him, before slowly turning around to look at Mickey through the front window shield. Mickey looks bored, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. He fixes Ian with his patented ‘what the fuck are you doing now you fucking freak’ look and it makes Ian feel dizzy. It’s not until Mickey punches the horn that he snaps out of it, the loud blunt sound piercing through the quiet of the night like a block of cement into Ian’s chest, and he pads over to the passenger side door and pulls it open, getting inside.
“Pass me those sunflower seeds,” Mickey says, jerking his head to the package lying on the floor at Ian’s feet. Ian reaches over to pick them up and hands them to Mickey, who snatches them away. His skin is still a little bit flushed, and he wants to kiss him so he does – just leans over and plants his lips to the side of Mickey’s face.
“Ay, ay,” Mickey says, batting him away.
Ian’s trying to bite back the smile that wants to spread across his face – it’s the same smile that Mickey always lures from somewhere deep inside of him – so he turns on the radio. A song he kinda likes is on, some stupid top 40 shit but he can’t get enough of the beat. He leaves it there and fiddles with his seat until it leans back. After a couple of verses, he doesn’t bother trying to fight against the smile that wants to be on his face – Mickey can get as pissy as he wants, he doesn’t care. This night has been awesome and he’s happy and he’s not going to hide it no matter how much Mickey would like to play it cool.
“Don’t tell me you’re listening to this. God, your taste in music is such shit,” Mickey says, but there’s no real venom in his voice – he sounds kinda hoarse and sleepy, the way he always does after a good fuck, and Ian tries not to look too smug when he sees Mickey lean his seat back too.
Ian just pillows his hands underneath his head and they sit there in silence, Mickey spitting sunflower seeds into one of the empty red bull cans and Ian enjoying the breeze that floats through the open windows. He tries not to count the minutes and hours until he has to leave again with nothing but the memory of the night and how good it feels to reach across the space between them to take Mickey’s hand and for Mickey to let him.