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Wood splinters and shatters into a trillion fucking pieces at the direct meeting point of the door and Mickey’s boot.
Ian would bitch about there surely being some other, less destructive way inside the cabin, but he’s pretty sure his thighs are frozen solid, so…
Brute force, it is.
“Ain’t exactly the Ritz,” Mickey notes, both of them stomping off as much snow as they can on the small foyer rug. He’s the first to be a huge bitch about things. Historically.
And just as historically, Ian is quick to swoop in with a silver lining. “Great place to not freeze to death, though.”
It’s not like they’ve got a lot of options up here in…wherever they are - however far away they managed to stray from the group before getting fucked over by the deadly combo of the sun setting and a storm touching down.
It’s been a true cocktail of low visibility and even lower patience, and to say Ian’s ready to bunker in is an understatement.
He shuffles out of his boots for the sake of not tracking snow further in, silently thanking his decision to double-sock as he pads his way over to the fireplace. “You know, we could be back at the lodge right now if you hadn’t wandered off…”
At the opposite wall, Mickey flicks on a light switch, clicking his tongue in annoyance when they stay plunged in dark, silvery blues. “Didn’t tell your golden retriever ass to follow me.”
It would be so incredibly funny if it wasn’t the dumbest shit Ian’s ever heard. “So what, I was supposed to let you wander off into a snowstorm by yourself? You know how fucking dangerous that is?”
Mickey’s smart, but he’s stubborn. And that applies to life-or-death situations as well, apparently. “Woulda been a lot quieter…”
Ugh.
Ian’s gonna pretend he didn’t hear that.
Honestly, he shouldn’t be shocked things turned out this way. In the year that he and Mickey were together, he found himself at the center of far more questionable situations than doctor-recommended. High speed chases. Getting stuck together in a walk-in freezer. An abandoned cabin during a biblical-level snowstorm? Sure. Why the hell not.
Getting a fire going is their first step of action. His coat swishes loudly as he squats and cranes his head to look up inside the chimney, lit now by the flashlight he pulled from his bag.
Already open. Perfect.
And he knows he’s supposed to be focusing. Ignoring. ‘Task at hand’ and all that shit. But he’s just gotta know. “Why’d you even come with if you don’t wanna do shit with the group?”
Mickey’s off in the joined kitchen by now, opening every cupboard he can get his gloved hands on. “Dunno what you mean.”
“I mean you barely even like anyone we came with.” Weird that he has to explain this, but his curiosity has been eating away at him for days. “And it’s not like everybody doesn’t know that. So…”
He waits.
For something.
Anything.
But all he’s getting is the slam of cupboard doors. Slushy boots squeaking against the floor.
Alright. Whatever.
Ian goes back to the task at hand, stacking logs that he found right next to the stone fireplace. At least something is cooperating around here.
Once they’re arranged in a perfect formation, he moves on, “We need kindling…” not exactly sure why he says it out loud when he knows for a fact he won’t get any feedback.
It’s fine. There’s still little bunches of sticks in the bottom that he puts his faith in, with his lighter and a prayer, practically holding his breath until they catch and then…
Ian leans in. Blows, stoking the embers until they grow into flames that lick at the underside of the logs.
“Hurry up with that fire, wouldya? I’m freezin’ my balls off.”
Ignore.
Breathe.
Flames catching in the gnarled sides of the log formation before finally spreading.
Ian’s fingers are red and shaking with cold by the time he gets the fire where it needs to be. But it’s a small sacrifice for the warm reward. The greater good.
“Fuck yeah…” he breathes out. “Got it.”
Back in the kitchen, Mickey seems to be finished with his own task, so he makes his way around the couch to see for himself. “Fuckin’ finally… Guess those boy scout badges paid off, huh Red?”
Ian suppresses an eye roll, ready for his next step. “Why don’t you make yourself useful?” But before he can assign a task, Mickey’s pressing forward.
“Got everything we need right here.”
Ian’s eyebrows jump as he jerks away from the bottle that suddenly enters his line of sight, amber liquid sloshing around inside.
He takes a second to process. Glances up at Mickey, who’s got this shit-eating grin across his face as he tilts his head with a satisfied, “Eh…?”
It’s…good, of course. Ian certainly won’t turn down whiskey on a frigid day. And call him petty if you must, but, “No food?”
Mickey’s answer is another little wiggle of the bottle, the spark in his eyes rivaling the flames dancing beside them in the fireplace.
And… Alright. Ian supposes that’s a good enough find. He can’t say that though, of course. “We need blankets. Go strip the beds or something.”
Above him, Mickey’s grin is unshakable, “You got it, cubscout,” before more or less shoving the bottle into Ian’s hand and making his way toward the back of the cabin.
Finally alone - finally silent - Ian draws in a breath.
He allows himself a moment to settle. Fights the heat of suggestion that works up his body as he glances down at the whiskey in his hand, the more questionable paths this bottle could lead him down slowly sinking in.
But no.
No problem here.
Everything is A-okay actually. So good, that he’s just gonna set it down and keep things moving, shrugging his backpack off his shoulders so he can gather what he needs.
He finds his phone. Checks for a signal - pitiful and unreliable, but he tries it anyway.
‘riding out the storm in a cabin. should be fine. got a fire going. meet up tomorrow.’
He rereads it. Frowns.
‘got mickey with me.’ he adds, and then hits send with another tiny prayer, watching the bar fill across the top of his screen for a good minute before it finally connects, his message bubble popping up as sent.
Wow.
No fucking way.
“Musty as hell…”
Ian glances up from his phone and is met with the promising sight of Mickey’s return, nearly his entire body hidden away under a pile of bedspreads and blankets.
He’s lost his boots somewhere along the way.
The urge to call him Princess and the Pea is crazy, but Ian can’t quite formulate it in time.
Because Mickey’s working quickly. “Here,” unloading the mountain of inarguably musty blankets right in front of the fire. “How ya like that?”
“Awesome,” Ian finds himself admitting, already getting to work with laying one of the thicker ones out flat on the ground before separating the rest into two piles. “Managed to get a text out.”
“No shit?”
“Uh huh…” he shrugs off his winter coat, the snow that’s melted on it a recipe for disaster. “Said we’re fine. Won’t send out a search team after all.”
Beside him, Mickey follows in his footsteps - coat off - gloves - hat. “Still think it’d be funny to pretend we bit it.” The tips of his ears are as red as his nose. “Show back up at the lodge and scare the mess outta everybody.”
“Yeah,” shocking, “of course you fucking do…” That’s just so like Mickey. And so unlike Ian. And Christ, trekking through the snow up to their knees really did a number on his pant legs. “We should take anything off that’s wet,” he says. And then, a little less confidently, “You know…coat…boots,” they definitely already did that, “pants…”
There’s truly no reason for him to be weird about it. Out of everyone on this trip, the person he’s most familiar with seeing out of their pants is Mickey. It’s not like it’s anything new.
So he for sure doesn’t need to crash out or awkwardly add “Socks,” to the list like that’s gonna soften the blow. His common sense has just frozen over with the rest of him, he thinks. And like everything else, soon it will thaw in front of the fire and he can focus on more important things.
You know, like not dying.
So with that, Ian turns, focusing on undoing his belt with cold, shaky fingers and tugging down his zipper.
It’s hard. To unzipper, that is. To peel his pants down his thighs when it feels like they’ve frozen onto him. A little shuffle is all he needs - one good bunny-hop that does the trick and gets him free and oh, the huff of a laugh next to him…
Ian frowns, sending a glare Mickey’s way. “Shut up.”
But Mickey’s simply working on his own, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as he shoves his jeans down his thick thighs - steps out of them with ease - like he isn’t frozen solid as he kicks them off and is left in his sweater and his boxer briefs - the black ones that cling to every curve of him like-
A thrill of surprise shoots through Ian’s chest as Mickey’s eyes land on him but oh! Everything’s good.
It’s great, actually, the blankets are heavy as he turns toward the fire and drags them up over his shoulders in a makeshift cloak.
They’ll be warm in no time.
“We should turn our phones off,” he suggests. “Conserve batteries.”
“Shit’s been dead for like, three hours,” is Mickey’s response. And it’s just in time for Ian to double check for his portable battery pack in the inner zipper of his backpack.
Yep.
Still there.
And more importantly. “So…just saying…if I hadn’t followed you, you’d be out here right now with no phone, no fire, and no food.” For the record.
Mickey throws him a look. “Who said anything about food?” And if it evens out at the sight of the granola bars Ian produces from his bag, it’s only for a second. Because then he’s right back to shaking his head at him. “Christ, you’re a boy scout with a capital B.S., ain’tchya...”
“You want one or not.”
“Obviously I fuckin’ want one.”
The thick blanket beneath them shifts as he stuffs himself down a couple feet beside Ian, wrapped in his own cocoon of bedclothes.
It’s another opportunity for a Princess and the Pea joke, but the urge to say ‘I told you so’ instead is just a bit too tempting. “Here,” he says, cocky with it as he hands Mickey a bar. “You’re welcome.”
In front of them, the fire crackles, smoke rising up the chimney and warmth radiating outward.
Ian’s still shivering, but he can feel his face again. Which is nice. He helps himself to his ice-cold granola bar and then sticks his hands out of the blankets, setting to work on thawing them as well.
“So really, though…” he tries again. “Why’d you come…”
The loud struggle of a wrapper between frigid fingers shows he’s not the only one who needs thawing, Mickey’s shrug dismissive. “Wanted to.”
And excuse Ian for being doubtful, but, “Really?”
It just doesn’t add up for him. Everyone has more or less tolerated Mickey through the years, but it’s pretty obvious that’s a one-way street. Even if it wasn’t, Mickey had fucking told him back when they were together. Had made it perfectly clear that he’s not a fan of any of them.
And now here he is. Again. Tagging along on a friend reunion trip a year later.
“Guess you just like frostbite that much,” Ian supposes, realizing this particular swing and miss has landed them in shaky territory that he wasn’t necessarily aiming for.
Certainly not when they’re both on death’s door.
Time to lighten the mood.
It’s a joint effort this round.
“Give 'er here,” Mickey motions toward the bottle of whiskey that’s been left on the floor. And then, after he gets it back and successfully opened for a swig, “What else you got in that bag?”
It comes out like an insult, but Ian chooses to grasp onto the curiosity in it. Because finally, some recognition for his preparedness.
“Hand sanitizer… Flashlight,” he pulls it out and gives a little demonstration of the beam with a quick click on and off, the nod he gets just to humor him, probably. “Rope… Pocket knife…” What he finds next is enough to give him a little surge of interest. “First aid - you hurt yourself at all kicking the door down?”
“Oh,” the matching interest Mickey answers with gets Ian’s instincts kicking in on a dime. “Yeah, now that ya mention it - right here.”
With a tug of the kit from his bag, Ian gets ready to set into motion - to assess, looking up and locking onto Mickey and the…middle finger…waiting for him, stuck out from his blankets.
Ha ha.
Ian rolls his eyes, but he’s gotta admit, there’s a tiny part of him that wants to laugh. A part that’s waaaaay down in there. “If you were bleeding out, you wouldn’t be such a dick to me.”
“If I was bleeding out, you woulda carried my ass here like fuckin’ Balto.”
“No. I wouldn’t have, ” Ian says even though they both know that yes, he would have. And anyway, “Seem to remember a few times you didn’t mind me carrying you.”
Maybe not a cool thing to say. To bring up old flings just to prove himself right.
But if it’s upset Mickey, he’s sure got a funny way of showing it, the grin returning to his face as he brings the bottle back up. “Think all those times ended a little different than this, Red.”
He takes a drink, and Ian watches the whiskey slosh, the way it leaves Mickey’s lips wet jogging memories of those very instances in his head.
It’s true. The only similarities tonight are the booze and the distinct lack of pants. But Ian can’t think about that right now. He shouldn’t, at least. “Definitely weren’t as cold.” That’s for sure.
“Ain’t kiddin’…” Mickey’s brows pinch as he passes the bottle over to him, both hands free to drag the blankets closer to himself this way. “Can’t get fuckin’ warm…”
And if it was a different time - if they were in a different place - Ian would think it makes him kinda adorable. He’d tease him about how small he looks. How tucked away.
Princess and the Pea.
This is not that, though.
For the second time tonight he forgoes the whiskey, setting it down beside him. Instead, he chooses to pull off the top blanket from his layers, the cold that starts to seep through mostly manageable as he knees over to where Mickey’s sitting, and then wordlessly drapes it over his shoulders.
You can bet your ass he’s being watched - analyzed with confused, cautious brows as Ian wraps the extra blanket around him tight. “The fuck-…?”
But, “I’m fine,” he says, and it’s the truth. “Don’t need so many.” And then he’s back in his own space, the heat from the fire washing over his cheeks until they burn.
It’s just the crackle of the logs in front of them after that. The howl of the wind just outside the window.
“Always were a fuckin’ furnace…” Mickey mutters. And then, a little quieter… “Thanks…”
It’s real, for once. Honest.
Like the smile that Ian feels ghost past his lips as he nods, falling into the surprisingly easy call of Mickey’s softened gaze in the low light.
But then it’s time to look away. Back into the fire. Back to the here and now.
That isn’t what this is.
“How cold you think it’s dropped…?”
With the power of suggestion, Ian pulls his remaining blankets around himself. “Kinda don’t wanna check,” he admits. “Like if I don’t know the exact number, I won’t actually feel it.”
Mickey sniffs beside him. “That’s fucking stupid.”
He knows. “I know.”
“Want the blanket back?”
“Nope.” He waves it off, opting to lean over and grab the fire poker that’s hanging with several other tools on the stand. “Fire’s doin’ plenty.”
The rod is made from sturdy metal, and it’s heavy in his palm as he prods it at the logs, stoking more embers to life. It holds Mickey’s attention just as well, even as he mentions it. “Whiskey’s good for that too.”
Which is true. Ian’s absolutely no stranger to how warm whiskey gets him, it’s just… “I’m good.”
“Ain’t drinkin’ anymore…?”
Ian can feel those eyes on him. The heat they stoke themselves. “I do,” he says. “Just tryin’ to keep my wits about me.”
Which must be very funny, because suddenly Mickey’s chuckling, his breath clouding in the chilled air. “Your ‘wits’, huh…?” Amused at the word, no doubt. “The fuck for?”
But Ian doesn’t feel like he needs to explain himself. He can not drink if he doesn’t want to. If he thinks it’s the smarter option in the long run, which judging by the itch in his fingers the more he feels those eyes on him, it definitely is. “Gotta tend the fire. Keep us alive.”
There. An explanation, even though he doesn’t owe him one anymore.
They don’t owe each other anything, actually. It’s something Ian’s still coming to grasps with, apparently, even after all this time.
“Suit yourself,” Mickey shrugs, but it doesn’t look like he’s aiming to press it further - no more than a murmured, “Give it here, then,” since it’s not doing much good all the way over there on the floor.
Another transfer of the bottle. Glittering amber catching light from the fire.
It sloshes on the pass-by, Mickey’s cold fingers nudging against his.
And it’s getting harder and harder for Ian to ignore the thirst that’s building up in him.
“Got enough wood?”
He frowns, pushing off his startle in the direction of the question. “What?”
“For the fire,” Mickey elaborates. Because obviously that’s what he’s fucking talking about. “Gonna have enough for the night, or we gonna run out?”
Right. Of course.
“Uh…” Ian takes a quick, cursory glance at the rest of the stack piled by the side of the fireplace. “Maybe. Might have to rely on body heat in a bit.”
It’s free after all.
He can see Mickey nodding in the corner of his eye. Can feel the tease that’s fighting its way to the surface, just waiting for him to hop back to that first slip up. Because of course he’s fucking going to. “Christ, man,” he chuckles, “what’re you, twelve?”
Ian’s eye roll is barely contained because come on. “Oh right, like you didn’t phrase that shit on purpose-”
“What shit-”
“Fuck me for assuming you were on your way to saying something nasty.”
It’s an argument Mickey can’t defend, his head tilt admitting but less than apologetic.
“Exactly,” Ian finishes. And secretly, maybe Mickey’s onto something. Because the past few moments alone have definitely gotten some warmth blooming inside him. “Dirty as hell…”
And Mickey’s still smirking over there. “Thought ya liked that about me.”
Ugh. “I do,” Ian admits - or, “I did,” he corrects. And there really should be more to that thought, shouldn’t there?
When’s it gonna come?
Never, apparently. Just like the relief he’s still waiting for from the itch in his fingers - the urge to reach out.
He prods the logs with the fire poker instead. Listens to the pop of burnt, crackling wood.
And when he makes the mistake of glancing over, Mickey’s eyes have locked onto him, too playful for his own good.
Ian reaches out - gives in - but it’s to wrap his hand around the neck of the bottle, pulling it back to him without looking away.
“Shut up,” he interrupts before Mickey can even open his mouth.
“Didn’t say nothin’…”
“You’re thinking it.” He didn’t have to date Mickey for almost a year to recognize when something’s waiting in the wings.
Especially when that something is dirty.
It’s another instance Mickey can’t deny. So instead he watches, gaze heavy as it hangs on the way Ian brings the whiskey bottle to his lips, and then tips it back in a generous swig.
It’s instant fire - burning and stinging unpleasantly down his throat as he swallows, his grimace just as pained as his biting wheeze. “Fuck…” Jesus Christ, this shit could kill a man.
“Good, huh…” Mickey grins next to him.
Because he’s always been better at hard liquor than him. He can take shots like a motherfucker - perfect poker face - Ian’s seen it more times than he can count.
And good for him and everything, but right now Ian doesn’t have the voice to answer. He’s just finally getting his face right, only to decide on fucking it up again with another swig instead.
Fuck it, right? Might as well.
There’s gotta be some entertainment value in it, because Mickey has leaned back on his hands to take in the show. Like it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened this whole trip. Like there isn’t a literal snow storm howling outside the window, threatening to block them in forever. “Know who’s shittin’ their pants at the lodge right now?” he says, words beginning to draw together from his own turns at the bottle. “Your little fuckin’ boyfriend.”
There’s just enough of a tease there for Ian to comfortably brush it off. Because Christ, not this again. He doesn’t know how many times he has to say it. “We’re not together.”
“But you’ve banged.”
The fuck? “Says who?”
“Says him.”
“When?” They may have ran this thread into the ground already, but this part? This part’s new. Ian hands the whiskey over and he’s gotta admit, the face he’s pulling feels an awful lot like the one he just pulled after drinking. But this time, his insides are beginning to warm. “You know, he probably said that just to get under your skin. After you fucked with him somehow.”
Mickey shrugs. Doesn’t deny he might’ve had something to do with it, which comes as exactly zero surprise. But there’s a certain punch lingering in his nonchalance. “Whatever. Fuckin’ wants ya, man…”
It settles over Ian strangely - in this way that turns him combative - like he needs to convince Mickey that’s not true, even if he has to get his hands on him to prove it.
But… “No, he doesn’t,” he says instead. “And even if he did, I don’t want him. So…” …so… “…back off.”
He grabs the bottle from Mickey. Downs a huge, horrible swig, his eyes squeezing shut in protest.
God, if the cold’s not gonna do him in, this whiskey sure will.
“Always did like that about you…”
He takes a second to right himself, clearing the sting from his throat. “What.”
“That,” Mickey says beside him. “Got a fuckin attitude on ya. You can dish it back, you know what I mean?” And Ian’s head may be starting to swim, but he’s pretty sure that’s admiration he hears. “Keeps shit interesting.”
He has to laugh - this breathy, huffy thing that clouds in front of him.
That’s a word for it, for sure.
“Dating you was definitely interesting…” Even if it was just arguing, there was never a dull moment with Mickey when they were together. “Sex was fuckin’ good, too…” he admits, and it’s only after a beat of heavy, looming silence that his brain finally catches up to his mouth - that he realizes what just slipped out while he was ten steps ahead. Shit. “Sorry, that was-…kinda fucked up-”
“Just sayin’ what we both already know, Red,” Mickey agrees. But fuck, there’s this smirk that’s pulling at the corner of his mouth, heated over and tempting and Ian is fucking thirsty but-
He gets to his feet, reaching for the log grabber on the metal hanging rack. Because if he does this, then he can’t do anything else stupid. Like get drunk on the whiskey he said he wasn’t gonna drink. Or bring up how good the sex was to the guy he isn’t even dating anymore. You know, dumb shit like that.
He repositions a log in the fireplace in hopes that the blaze will grow. Nudges at it, just a little bit more, just for something to do.
Because he knows the second he turns around, he’s gonna blow it. The second he gets Mickey in his sights again, he’s gonna do something downright moronic - another unfortunate cocktail of whiskey and steamy muscle memory.
Because it’s all floating back now. The floodgates have opened. If Ian’s been right about anything tonight, it’s about how insanely good fucking Mickey was. Jesus Christ, the way he felt around Ian’s-
“Blockin’ the heat, Red…” he hears behind him.
And when he turns, Mickey is folded up in his blankets so tightly…looks so cold…the way they hug around him lighting this intense, intense need in Ian that he can’t stomp down anymore.
Ugh, god damn it.
Okay fuck it. But just a little.
With careful steps, he returns to the floor blanket. But this time, instead of sitting, he bypasses his spot to settle right behind Mickey with a singing pulse and fiery determination.
He doesn’t get a protest, but Mickey is definitely taking stock - allowing himself to be situated from behind as Ian opens and then closes him up inside his own blanket cloak with him. Double-wrapped.
“Body heat…” he finds himself explaining as he scoots up close, and there’s a warmth spreading in him that’s full-body and immediate, that’s for sure. Dangerously so. Kinda like he isn’t supposed to be doing this in the first place or something.
But the tips of Mickey’s ears are cold and red and cute so he wraps his arms around him. Slides his legs underneath his. Forgets, for a second, about their pants lying on the floor a few feet away, until their bare legs slip against each other under the blankets.
Right.
If Mickey’s gonna tell him to fuck off, he needs to do it soon.
But when he does finally speak, instead of annoyance it’s pleasant surprise in his tone. “Holy shit, it works.”
And despite it all, Ian indulges in a little eye roll with his nerves. “What, you think I was lying to you?”
“Just thought maybe you were tryin’ to pull a fast one,” Mickey grins. “Get handsy.”
The blankets slide out from between his back and Ian’s chest, quickly repositioned to pick up the slack up front over their feet.
And as good as it may be to suddenly feel Mickey pressing up against him again, with no padding in between… “Not tryin’ to get handsy…” That’s not what this is.
“Uh huh,” he gets back. But it sounds like maybe Mickey still wouldn’t mind if that were the case.
And Ian’s gonna try very hard not to think about any of that. To not notice the familiar, heart-tugging smell of Mickey’s cologne. How easily he could lean in just a couple inches - brush his lips over the tips of his ears to warm them.
“Ain’t the first time you got me sat up like this,” Mickey must feel the need to remind him, and it’s true. It’s not.
Memories are coming back to him now - hazy visions of the fireplace in Ian’s old apartment and a naked Mickey in his lap.
Fuck…
It’s just a flash, but the swoop in his belly is killer. Begs for an ounce of common sense. A dose of reality. “We fought about marshmallows for like an hour,” he reminds him.
“Uh huh. And then I rode you for like double that.”
Christ…
An exaggeration, but Ian’s dick doesn’t give a shit about that. Especially when Mickey turns his head, still sat up against him but blinking back at him now, flames dancing in all that close, icy blue.
Ian swallows. Stops himself from wetting his lips. “Kinda different this time…” he manages to point out.
“Is it?”
It is. “We weren’t freezing our asses off back then.”
“Mm,” Mickey counters, his gaze fluttering downward to Ian’s mouth and then back up, “…feelin’ pretty hot now, dunno about you…”
And if Ian had the brain power, he could trace back to every misstep he took tonight that led him to this moment. Following Mickey into the storm. Downing the whiskey that he knew would make him sloppy. Letting himself think about how badly he wants to be inside him again - even for just a moment - even if it doesn’t mean anything. All of it landed him here. Inches from Mickey’s cute fucking face. A breath away from that tempting mouth, red and a little chapped and literally everything that Ian’s craving against his own.
Fuck…
“Don’t look at me like that…”
“Like what…” Mickey taunts.
But he knows exactly what Ian means. “Like that.” Like he wants Ian to kiss him. Like he wants Ian to fuck him, hands clenched around the blankets, but not if he lets them roam instead, feeling over Mickey’s body under the privacy of the bedspread.
He could do it so easily.
But after another moment to sweat it out, Mickey takes pity on him, his little huff of a chuckle teasing before he drifts back around again and wait…
Oh…
Ian hates how he instantly wants it back. Hates even more that he catches himself listing forward, to close the space back up himself.
It’s fucking decision time.
He’s either gotta get his shit together or commit to the fuckup. Put a room between them or lean all the way into this. Because he’s not sure how much longer he can hang here in this pent up, horny limbo.
“…Mick…?”
“Mm…?”
But what is he even saying? What the fuck comes next, besides the way his pulse is climbing - heavy in his eardrums?
Mickey turns his way again and it’s all evaporating anyway, nothing leaving Ian’s mouth but a shaky breath that draws those eyes right back to it.
And… Damn.
Okay fuck it. But just a little.
On an impulse - beneath the blankets - he slides his palm over Mickey’s bare, inner thigh. And his hand must still be cold because it gets Mickey gasping - gets his lips parting just enough for Ian to lean in and-
And he’s kissing him.
Fuck.
Fuck, Ian’s kissing him. But Mickey’s kissing him back and-
With a shaky huff, Ian drags himself away, but not by very much. It’s just enough to get Mickey back in his sights. To catch his breath as it clouds between them, even for one second.
But Mickey’s done waiting.
The hand that drags Ian in by the back of the neck is cold and certain - set - and Ian’s lips part for him embarrassingly fast.
Instant gratification.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
But god, there’s truly nothing like it. Nothing and no one.
Mickey hums in this way that’s so satisfying - that makes Ian feel so much better about how badly he wants this because he’s not the only one. Not with the way Mickey presses into him - chases after him now - grins and snags Ian’s bottom lip between his teeth.
Heat pulses in him like a motherfucker.
Radiates, familiar and longstanding.
It melts down deep in him as he lets Mickey tug at his bottom lip, relishing the light sting before he presses back in answer, licking right past his lips and into his mouth because fuck it! He wants this and he’s gonna let himself have it and a jolt of liquid-hot pleasure works through him as Mickey’s tongue glides over his in retaliation, coaxing him in deeper.
To think Ian was ever gonna be able to keep himself away under these conditions was stupid as fuck.
“Come here,” he pleads, grabbing not so gently at the meat of Mickey’s inner thigh, before dragging his hand in right over his lap - right against the bulge that’s waiting for him beneath those soft, thin boxer briefs. Holy fuck. “Come here.”
Mickey doesn’t need to be told a third time.
He lets out a little noise from the back of his throat as Ian palms between his legs, and then kicks out to reposition himself how they should be. How they were the last time. How they probably were always gonna end up tonight, face to face with no time lost between.
The blankets shift with them, but Ian keeps them wrapped around their shoulders as best as he can. And when Mickey drops himself into his lap, his weight is solid and warm and fucking perfect - everything he wants and needs.
And then Mickey starts grinding down into him.
“Oh fuck…” Ian breathes out, but it’s on the tail end of a chuckle. “Jesus Christ, Mickey…”
“Ain’t so different from last time after all,” he teases. And he’s right unfortunately. Or…fortunately, he guesses.
Whatever - the way he’s rubbing up on him is getting him hard almost laughably fast. And Ian helps him along, both hands grabbing those hips until the blankets start to slip off their shoulders, both of them too preoccupied to hold them up.
It’s fine. For now. Ian’s never been so warm in his entire fucking life, and he’s got a feeling he’s not the only one.
He surges back up to slot their lips together, hot puffs of breath falling between them after each one. A slip of the tongue. More than that, greedy after thinking he’ll never get to taste him again.
Because it’s still true. Mickey’s mouth is sweet as fuck for how much nasty shit comes out of it.
“Don’t suppose you got anything in that bag of yours, huh boy scout?” he grins, keeping it close. “Anything useful…?”
And Ian is drunk and horny as hell, but his brain latches onto that meaning without fail, cold noses bumping together as he blindly reaches into his backpack - roots around - pulls out condoms and a handful of lube packets, all gathered in a helpful little baggie.
It’s too much for Mickey, his grin insane. “Course you do…”
“Never know…”
And all it gets him is a teasing hum against his lips. “Mm…thinkya did, though…”
But that’s for another time. A time where Ian isn’t dangerously close to busting a load in his boxers after a year-long dry spell. “Want me to fuck you, or not.”
And oh, the way Mickey grinds his ass down against him is nasty. Like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Obviously I fuckin’ want it.”
The blankets have fallen to their waists by now but they keep moving - shifting and dragging each other’s underwear down - Ian focusing on rolling a condom on each of them with shaky fingers, while Mickey reaches behind to work himself open.
It’s nowhere near as romantic as the last time they were in front of a fire, but at least they’re not fighting about marshmallows. And there’s a certain taste of delicious desperation in it this time. And Mickey is straddling him again all the same, looking like a cute, sexy-ass dream in his thick-knit sweater and rosy cheeks and god, when he lines himself up and then sinks down, slowly squeezing around every inch of Ian’s cock, it’s like no time has passed whatsoever. They fit precisely back into place, like two fucked up little puzzle pieces, Mickey’s heat perfectly tight around his entire length.
“Fuck…” they breathe out and it’s in unison. Horny unison.
And then Mickey starts to bounce on it.
Ian’s eyes immediately roll to the back of his head from the deep, familiar pleasure it floods in him. But he’s still got enough sense to grab at the blankets, hauling them back up over Mickey’s shoulders to keep him warm. “Jesus Christ…”
He’s loud with it because he can be with Mickey. He can just let that shit fly, each moan that falls from his mouth seeming to stoke the fire in Mickey’s hips, just like it used to.
And he’s not the only one who gets to let loose. “Fuck…” Breathy and punctuated with each bounce down onto him. “Missed this fucking cock…”
An absolute sucker-punch to the last shreds of Ian’s composure.
A healthy fan to the flames of his ego.
He drops a hand to fit between them and starts playing with Mickey’s cock over the condom, delighted in the way it gets that ass to clench around him even tighter.
“Feel so fuckin’ good, Mick.” Just like he remembered. Just like he was afraid of.
So good that Ian’s starting to wonder if this is a dream - his transition into the light. If maybe he actually did bite it, and his body is laid out in the snow somewhere, getting buried under the storm.
Is that fucked up? That the last thing he sees on his way to heaven is an ex he can’t share a room with for two minutes without fighting or fucking?
That’d make Mickey an angel, wouldn’t it?
Holy fuck, he’s drunk.
And Mickey’s no angel - that’s for fucking sure. Not with the way he’s fucking himself on Ian’s cock, his lips parted and chapped and tasty as fuck as Ian works at his tip with those tight, teasing twists that he remembers him loving.
“Gettin’ close,” Mickey groans, hips chasing after his own orgasm as he leans forward good and close. “Jesus Christ, Ian you’re gonna make me cum…”
It’s something he hasn’t heard in so long. And there’s something about it that fucks Ian over, the swoop it unfolds in his belly reaching just way too low and- “Fuck, I’m coming-”
It sneaks up on him but that doesn’t make it any less killer, Ian’s entire body tensing as he fucks up into Mickey with his orgasm, both arms abandoning the blankets to hang on for dear life around him.
It’s like the flames have jumped clean out of the fireplace to lick up his entire body. Like Mickey is controlling them himself, sending heat over his skin when he clenches around Ian’s cock as he cums too.
It’s perfect for something so messy.
They work together - so goddamn well - unless they’re doing anything but fucking each other stupid.
And Ian is definitely out in the forest somewhere, collecting a mountain of snow on top of him before becoming some bear’s midnight snack.
But until he fully passes over, he’s gonna let himself enjoy the comedown, both hands dropping to hold Mickey by the small of his back as they catch their breath in the sea of blankets.
It’s just warm, knit cotton under his palms.
Even warmer skin beneath.
“Well…” Mickey admits on a long breath out, “ain’t fuckin’ cold anymore…”
The laugh that falls from Ian’s mouth is honest.
Because yeah. Him too.
Pretty effective use of body heat…
“Got a badge for that?”
A beat. “…for fucking?”
“Yeah.”
Christ… “No, Mickey,” he murmurs, “I don’t have a badge for fucking.”
Just a touch of attitude, but the answer comes easily. Because it always does. Even for Mickey, who simply hums. “Mm. You should find one...”
And maybe they’re good at this too. This quiet, familiar back-and-forth. Just as long as they’ve both shot a load recently. “I’ll get right on that…”
With a steadying breath, Ian glances at the fire over Mickey’s shoulder, for what feels like the first time in a while.
“Gonna have to add a log soon…” he supposes.
Gonna have to get these condoms off too…
And wipe down the sweat - or maybe that’s just Ian.
“Well hey,” Mickey adds, and he’s starting to gather himself so he can ease off into his own space, “We run outta wood, I got a bright idea for us.”
It’d be a great time to crack down on that. To stop it before things can start again.
But fuck it. The seal’s already been broken. What’s the harm in once or twice more?
It’s a thought that, for the first time since breaking into this cabin, puts Ian’s mind at ease, his grin softening as he watches Mickey move in the light of the fire.
He can’t believe he’s saying this - and maybe it’s just the endorphins wrapping around his brain after coming so hard after a year - but out of everyone on this trip, it turns out there’s no one he’d rather be snowed in with.
That, and maybe the reason Mickey came isn’t such a mystery after all.