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Mickey knew when it was time to move on. He’d been running for seven years. He’d feel a humming in his blood, the fizz of anxiety in his chest. He never stayed anywhere long. Mickey had been eighteen years old when he’d packed his meager belongings, flogged his guns and coke, and fled. He’d waited just long enough for the state to have no reason to look for him, for the police to not take a missing persons report seriously. The likelihood of Terry going to the police for anything was practically non-existent. But Mickey wasn’t taking any chances. He would be running from Terry for the rest of his life anyway, he couldn’t risk having to avoid the cops the whole time as well.
He’d hitch-hiked his way all around the United States, seen practically every one of them at least once. He’d seen some of them even a handful of times. His stays had ranged from six weeks to eight months. He’d never settled, never put down roots. The fear always crept back in, slowly but painfully, he’d be reminded of why he had started running. And he’d run again. Perhaps he would run until he was dead. Not once had he found anything that would make him stay. Not once had he ever felt secure enough to not fear being found.
Mickey had also never once dwelled on the concept of his soulmate, not really. Not everybody had them anyway, and with the track record of his life so far, there was no way Mickey would have one. What good would it do? Mickey never stayed anywhere. He didn’t need anybody trying to anchor him.
The thought of a soulmate only made him bitter. The only person he’d ever known in his whole life who had truly believed in the phenomenon was his little sister Mandy. She had been so desperate to get out of their childhood house of horrors, to escape from whatever fresh Hell their father would dish out next. It was a fantastical notion, a dream-like idealism that had her thinking of some knight in shining armour who would love her despite it all, and somehow make it all worth it.
Mickey had watched as her desperation grew, how her starry eyes would light up, how she began to convince herself that every boy in her bed must be her soulmate, that maybe he just didn’t believe in them so couldn’t recognize what was right in front of him. Mickey was helpless to stop any of it, could never get her to see that she deserved better, that she was only fooling herself. She’d chased that mirage of a life out of state without a word. She’d never returned.
But if all the old wives tales were to be believed, a soul bond was not something you had to work for. A soulmate was supposed to be recognizable on sight, and it felt different for everyone, but it was unmistakable. Both parties would feel a draw, an inexplicable need to be together, like an immediate understanding of importance. But ultimately, a soulmate was someone who came into your life and altered it for the better, altered it irreversibly. A soulmate was someone who you would love forever, in whatever capacity or shape that took.
Mickey had long ago learned that you made your own luck, you carved out your own opportunity. He would never rely on anybody for anything. He would not repeat his sister’s mistakes, he would never be so desperate for companionship that he would risk it all. And so, Mickey had no one. Life went on.
He did okay for himself, better than most drifters would.Travelling was freeing, felt less like running away when he got to see the places that a lot of people sought after. He had his art supplies, and usually went to places that had high traffic, with lots of tourism. He’d sell sketches and water color paintings of shore fronts, cliff sides, monuments and skylines. It turned out art was a popular souvenir. And there were always a lot of people leaving those places too, heading back to wherever they came from, and willing to take Mickey along for the ride. It wasn’t quite the tattooing career he’d once allowed himself to dream of, but it worked.
For the first three years he’d lived on the side of roads and in the passenger seat of strangers' cars. Those places felt more like home than the cheap motels he’d forked out for in each place. He moved on when tourism died down, when the money started to dwindle, or sometimes when he had simply been in one place too long to be comfortable. Eventually he’d managed to scrimp and save enough to buy himself a beat up old truck. That had just meant more freedom, further distances, and when the money was tight at least he had somewhere dry to sleep. He no longer had to rely on the unpredictability of hitch-hiking to make sure he could get the Hell out of dodge.
And so, for the last seven years his life had been a cycle of run, paint, run. It was the only thing that kept him alive.
He’d spent the summer in South Haven, Michigan. It was the closest he’d been to Illinois for a very, very long time. Sometimes even looking out at Lake Michigan made him feel a little trapped. It had been seven years and countless miles, but he still held on to the fear that he would be dragged back. But South Haven was a quaint place, with lots of painting opportunities. There were picturesque landscapes, and lots of tourists eager to buy paintings and sketches of the lighthouse, the coast, and the hiking trails. There were an abundance of coffee shops with free wi-fi, and a large camp site where he could park his truck. Overall, it was one of the nicer places he’d stayed.
It was late afternoon, and he was on the pier between the North and South beach. He was just adding the finishing touches to a charcoal sketch of the lighthouse. It was more of a silhouette, minimalist approach, set against the sunset colours he’d already prepped on the card beforehand in watercolour. Tourists loved that kind of cheesy shit. His easel was set up as usual, his back was to the boardwalk, and his folder of available prints was laid out at his feet to be perused through by passers by.
Periodically people stopped to pick up and flick through the folder. He paid them no mind, and only spoke when asked something directly. What would be good about engaging in conversation with anyone? If they weren’t interested in buying, Mickey didn’t want to know. He had become a seasoned pro at side-stepping personal questions and small talk.
The folder was full of all of the places that he’d seen, monuments and landscapes from all over the United States, some more heavily featured than others. It was almost like a journey of his life so far, at least geographically. Everything from the Grand Canyon to the Brooklyn bridge, from Mount Rushmore, to the Statue of Liberty, to the Las Vegas strip. There was a lot of Chicago. Still, even after all this time, sometimes Mickey found himself drawing the skyline from memory, the style was becoming more abstract and the outcome slightly more ambiguous the more that time passed. Despite it all, Chicago still felt like home. The Southside was a part of him. He wondered when that feeling would fade.
“A lot of Chicago,” a voice said, as if echoing the direction Mickey’s own thoughts had taken. “That where you’re from?”
Mickey had been so focused on getting this final piece finished for the day that he hadn’t noticed anybody approaching. For a terrifying second Mickey wondered if he’d been recognized. In all his years of travelling he’d never met anyone able to recognize the Chicago skyline on sight, and certainly not from his minimalist or abstract depictions. The other man stood slightly to the left, out of Mickey’s eyeline, not obstructing the view, not blocking the light, as if it just came naturally for him to be considerate like that. But Mickey turned at the sound of his voice, fully prepared to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business.
But then he saw the way the afternoon sun set his hair ablaze, and faltered. The natural light of the sun flared in the blue-green-grey of his eyes, and each freckle was in stark relief against his pale skin. Every detail stood out as if they were hand-picked, chosen to draw Mickey’s attention. Mickey’s fingers twitched against the stick of charcoal in his hand. Then their gazes locked, and his grip slackened. The charcoal shattered into pieces as it hit the ground. For a long moment Mickey could only breathe. There was a buzzing, thrumming fire in his veins and a sudden, pulsing ache in his head. But as quickly as it came, it vanished. It left Mickey bereft, but certain.
If the stranger felt even a fraction of what Mickey suddenly did, he didn’t let it show. There was a brief furrowing of his brow, and a soft exhale. He seemed to study Mickey for a beat of silence, in which he probably wondered why Mickey was just openly gaping at him. But Mickey couldn’t think of a single word, couldn’t begin to quantify what had just happened to him. Like being struck by lightning, sudden and electrifying. He’d never seen it coming. He hadn’t wanted to see it. But he knew.
“I’m Mickey,” he managed to garble out.
He couldn’t remember what the stranger had said, couldn’t remember much of anything actually. He could only marvel, and try to mentally colour match his paints against the myriad of hues in the other man’s eyes.
“Ian,” the redhead finally introduced himself. He put the folder he still held carefully back onto the ground and put his hand out for a shake. “So, are you?”
Mickey didn’t even think before slipping his hand in Ian’s. His skin was warm and his grip was solid and Mickey was overcome with the sudden urge to have Ian touching him everywhere, always. This is what people have been chasing their entire lives. And suddenly things that had never made much sense before just did.
“Am I what?” He asked dumbly, still blinded by Ian’s fiery hair and infectious grin, still unable to look away.
“From Chicago?” Ian asked a little hesitantly now, and his smile had softened.
In an instant the trance that Mickey had fallen under was over, and reality came hurdled back towards him at a break neck speed. The shot of adrenaline had Mickey pushing to his feet, ready to run or fight tooth and nail, kicking and screaming. But when he was at his full height he realised that his nose was level with Ian’s collar bone, and Ian was much broader now that Mickey could see him straight on.
If it came to blows Mickey knew he had little chance of winning. But he was scrappy, and he fought dirty, and he had an unparalleled survival instinct that would give him an edge. He tried to school his expression, to show every ounce of that promised violence in his scowl. Soulmate or not, Mickey wouldn’t ever go back to Chicago. It would take more than broad shoulders and sunset hair to persuade Mickey to be anywhere near Terry again.
“How the fuck do you know where I’m from?” He seethed.
“Uh,” Ian paused, and he looked genuinely bemused, even a little sad. “The skyline? In your folder? You draw it a lot.”
Ian shrugged a little, his shoulders hunched forward and he suddenly appeared impossibly small. He averted his gaze but not before Mickey saw the flash of hurt. There was a sharp twinge in Mickey’s chest, a sense of guilt and shame.
“Fuck,” Mickey scrubbed a hand down his face and took a step back. As Ian continued to stare at the ground between them Mickey felt more and more like he’d kicked a puppy. “Shit, yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked like that. Just, Chicago is kinda a touchy subject.”
“Oh,” Ian said gently. “Sorry I brought it up then.”
“Nah, man,” Mickey tried to huff out a laugh, but it sounded pained. “It’s a pretty normal fucking question. I do draw the skyline a lot. I just ain’t used to people talking to me much at all, really. Don’t like to talk about myself.”
“Okay,” Ian shrugged. “Well, I still feel bad. So, how about you let me buy you a drink? I promise I won’t ask you anything about yourself at all.”
Mickey could only blink back at him for a second, but then Ian broke, and his grin split his face wide. His eyes danced with mirth, and Mickey found he didn’t really mind being made fun of, as long as it was Ian doing the teasing.
“Comedian, huh?” Mickey ribbed.
“EMT, actually,” Ian quipped back, not missing a beat.
“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey laughed, and it was only after the sound was out and in the air between them that Mickey realised he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d laughed.
“I see you’ve got some stuff to finish up, but I really would like to get you that drink,” Ian said, a little softer now, his smile hesitant. “So, I’ll be right over there,” he indicated to a bar just over the road. “And I really hope you’ll show up when you’re done.”
Mickey watched Ian - his fucking soulmate - walk away, and silently panicked. He’d made a fool of himself, and apparently for no reason, as Ian hadn’t seemed to feel even a fraction of what Mickey had. Mickey’s entire world tilted on its axis, his centre of fucking gravity shifted, he wanted to spend the rest of his life mixing paints until he could capture the exact shade of Ian’s hair and eyes and skin. What the fuck.
And sure, Ian was clearly attracted to him at least, he hadn’t been subtle with his invitation, but he hadn’t said a thing about soulmates. He hadn’t seemed tongue-tied or otherwise phased as Mickey crashed and burned through their brief conversation. He’d walked away after such a short interaction without so much as a backwards glance. Was it possible to have a non-reciprocal soul bond? Mickey had never heard of such a thing, but he’d generally avoided the topic at all costs until now. And looking back at the devastation of his life so far Mickey figured: sure, that tracks.
As he turned back to his easel he tried in vain to concentrate, to just get the piece finished. But his skin itched with the familiar feeling of being watched, yet this time he knew he wasn’t under threat. This time some part of his very being, on some instinctive, molecular level, knew that it was Ian’s eyes on him. He felt jittery, eager to turn his head, to seek Ian out. He hated it.
This would do him no good. He couldn’t possibly allow himself to become attached to someone who felt nothing more than passing desire for him. Desire was fleeting, easily sated. Desire was something Mickey could understand. He didn’t need an anchor point. He kept telling himself he wouldn’t go to the bar, he would pack up his shit, head for the truck, and get the fuck out of South Haven.
He would never know the touch of some tall, hot, redhead, funny, EMT who could pick the Chicago skyline out of a line-up. He would never dwell on the grief of that. He would never again think about his soulmate.
But, fuck, the guy was practically custom made for him.
For the first time in years Mickey started to dwell on thoughts of Chicago. He remembered Mandy, her burning desire to find the one person who was a part of her in a way that was cosmic, burned behind her retinas, pulsing under her skin. She’d wanted that person to save her. Mickey hoped with everything he had that she had found that someone, or anyone really, to love her the way she deserved. And didn’t he owe it to Mandy to seize this opportunity? Didn’t he owe it to himself to see what all the fuss was about?
Even if Ian didn’t feel it. Even if he wasn’t the one destined to be with Ian, the visceral reaction Mickey’s entire being had to his mere presence had unlocked something long buried. Mickey felt alive. Mickey wanted. He yearned in a way he didn’t think he was capable of.
So against his better judgement, Mickey showed up at the bar. It wasn’t pragmatic. It wasn’t sensible. It was even potentially down-right reckless. But when their eyes locked across the tabletop, Mickey forgot every argument he had made against this. Ian smiled so wide, relieved, and somehow Mickey knew he’d made the right choice.
They shared a basket of deep-fried shrimp and a pitcher of beer. The bar was artsy, styled in a vintage, almost old-Southern way. It was the kind of place Mickey never would’ve thought twice about entering, but he enjoyed it. Perhaps it was the laid back vibe, the hearty food, the view of Lake Michigan. Or maybe it was just Ian sitting opposite him, talking animatedly about his job and his family and his dreams, all with a tiny spot of buffalo sauce at the corner of his lips.
Ian was twenty three years old. He was from Chicago originally, but his family had moved to Milwaukee when he was still young. He said his biological father and half brother still lived in the Windy City though, and he’d spent half of his summers there growing up. He was particularly close to his older brother, and he paid his brother rent to stay in his basement that had been renovated into a studio apartment, with its own external entrance. Ian lit up when he talked about his nephew, he said he and Lip - what the fuck kinda name was Lip? - supported each other, understood each other in ways the rest of their siblings couldn’t.
Mickey, true to form, shared nothing of himself. And Ian, like he’d promised, didn’t ask. Still, Mickey could tell he was curious. Ian talked a lot, or perhaps he just felt he had to since Mickey wasn’t forthcoming, maybe it was even nerve-driven ramblings. Regardless, Ian talked and talked, and gestured animatedly. Mickey ‘hmm’d and ‘ah’d, and nodded when appropriate.
“I know I said I wouldn’t ask anything personal, and I won’t ask anything about Chicago,” Ian started, and Mickey braced himself. “But how long have you lived in South Haven?”
Mickey felt the mounting tension ease away. This was safe territory. He was somewhat taken aback by Ian saying he ‘lived’ in South Haven. Technically it was true, but it had never really felt like home. None of the countless places Mickey had stayed had ever really felt like somewhere he lived. He supposed he just lived in his truck.
“Coupla months,” he shrugged. “Gonna move on soon though. Only so many times you can paint that fucking lighthouse in a foreshortened view before you wanna put a gun between your teeth.”
“Drifter, huh?” Ian asked through a laugh, and his voice was light, teasing. But there was a sadness in his eyes that Mickey didn’t understand. “Sowing your wild oats?”
“Something like that,” Mickey chuckled. But his amusement lay only in how lame Ian was for using such a phrase. Because Mickey wasn’t sowing shit.
“Sometimes I wish I could do that,” Ian mused wistfully. “Just take off. See everything, anything. Fly by the seat of my pants.”
“Why don’t you?” Mickey asked. “I know you got your job or whatever, but couldn’t you take some time off? See the world?”
“Not that simple,” Ian’s voice grew subdued, and he ducked his head to avoid Mickey’s gaze. “I have bipolar. I do best under routine, schedule. My job makes me proud, keeps me going. Hell, if I’m honest it probably saved my life.” He took a deep breath, and his nimble fingers anxiously tore up a cardboard beer coaster. “Plus, with everything my family went through, we kinda gotta stick together. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle being away from them for too long.”
“What’s bipolar?” Mickey asked. “Like, it’s a mental health thing, right? I don’t really know shit about that kinda thing. Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” Ian smiled gently. “Honestly, a lot of the stuff people think they know about it is wrong anyway. So, it’s kinda nice that you don’t know anything. Means I can actually tell you my shit without you trying to challenge me.”
“Why the fuck would I challenge you on something you literally have?” Mickey was incredulous, and he poured himself another beer.
“You’d be surprised,” Ian chuckled, and held his own glass out for Mickey to refill. “It’s a disorder where I struggle to regulate my moods and emotions. I can be stable for a long time, years even, but then something will trigger it, or my meds will become ineffective, and I’ll enter into what’s called an ‘episode’. Episodes affect my behaviour and the way that I think and can lead me to make some pretty dangerous choices.”
“Is that why you became an EMT?” Mickey asked as he processed the information. “Like, did people not understanding your situation make you wanna be one of the people that could understand other people’s?”
“I…” Ian sat back in his chair and blinked owlishly for a second or two. A smile stretched his lips and crinkled the skin beside his eyes. “I actually never thought about it that way, but, maybe? Honestly, I hit a really low point where I wanted to end it. If it hadn't been for first responders I might have gone through with it. So, I guess, I wanted to be someone who had his shit together. A purpose, y’know?”
Mickey drew in a sharp breath. Despite everything that he had gone through in his life, he’d never really considered ending it. Not in any serious way. He’d had passive thoughts of wondering what the point in anything was, but he’d always been a survivor. He wanted to keep going, regardless of anything else. Sometimes the only motivation he needed was spite for his father, of the pride in knowing that Terry did not break him down. Terry wanted him dead, so Mickey would keep living. And maybe deep down Mickey knew that prioritizing spite over purpose, and survival over happiness wasn’t healthy, or sustainable. But it was all he’d ever known.
The idea that Ian had been out there somewhere, so desolate and alone that he didn’t want to see the next day, made Mickey grieve for that version of Ian he’d never gotten to know, hadn’t been able to help. Mickey had been so close to losing his soulmate before he’d ever gotten the chance to know him. His heart bled, cracked open beneath his ribs. The white-hot, stabbing pain of it stole his breath.
Even if he wasn’t the person that was made for Ian, even if Ian had a soulmate out there waiting for him, Mickey wanted to be whatever Ian would need. He reached across the table top to snag Ian’s hand, and then reached for the marker he had in his jacket pocket. Perks of being a homeless drifter artist was having art supplies coming out of his ears. He shakily scrawled his number across Ian’s palm.
“Next time you feel like that, you call me.” Mickey rubbed at the back of his neck nervously. This was a big gesture for him, and not something he ever would have done without extenuating circumstances. “I won’t be able to do much, but maybe it will help to speak to somebody who doesn’t have some bullshit bias about medical conditions they don’t have.”
Ian chuckled lightly, and he stared down at the numbers on his skin in something akin to awe. He smiled at Mickey with such a tender expression that Mickey didn’t know what to do in the face of it, and didn't feel worthy of being the recipient. He drained his beer and shrugged a little, he was aiming for a nonchalance he didn’t feel. He wasn’t particularly successful.
“So, what’s a gay, redheaded, mentally ill, EMT from Chicago who lives in Milwaukee doing in a place like South Haven?” Mickey asked somewhat teasingly, eager to move on to lighter topics.
“I love that you’ve stripped me down to the basics, listing off trivia like you’re my Grindr profile,” Ian laughed, and then laughed harder when Mickey choked on his own spit. “Anyway, to answer your question: a work conference.”
“In South Haven?”
“Nah, in Kalamazoo. All expenses paid trip to Kalamazoo for the actual conference, but it wrapped early yesterday and I’m off work until the night shift on Monday, so I rented a car and thought I’d treat myself to a weekend by the coast.”
Mickey hummed appreciatively. That seemed like a pretty nice idea. Kalamazoo wasn’t that far of a drive, and with the flights from Kalamazoo to Milwaukee paid for, it was a cheap get-away. There wasn’t all that much to see in South Haven, it was just quiet and laid back and picturesque. A weekend would be enough. It was Saturday night now, meaning that Ian would likely be leaving the following evening, ready for work come Monday. Mickey hoped he would be able to spend the next twenty four hours in Ian’s company. He wondered if that would ever be enough.
“What kinda conference do EMT’s need to go to?”
“It was more just insight. We got talked at a lot. New medical advancements, predictions about what’s to come next, demonstrations of first aid. That kinda thing.”
“Learn anything interesting?”
“Yeah, actually.” Ian lit up and leaned in, and Mickey was prepared for Ian to go off on another one of his tirades. When he landed on a topic of particular interest, Ian could talk and talk. They’d been at the bar for hours already. “We learnt about the medical implications of soulmates. There was like, this whole presentation and-”
Mickey’s world came to a screeching halt. He couldn’t hear whatever else Ian was saying. Because he had been okay believing that he wasn’t the one destined for Ian. He would have packed up his hurt and carried it and learned to live with the weight of it. But he’d never imagined he’d have to hear Ian talk about soulmates, and presumably all of the ways that he didn’t measure up.
He flashed back to being a closeted, terrified kid having to hear Mandy drone on and on about the fairytale that would save her. He remembered hating the entire concept, and hoping he never found his soulmate only to paint a target on his own back as well as theirs. He remembered blocking out lessons in school about history and philosophy and all the ways humanity had strived to prove and preserve their truth. The very first time Ian mentioned the phenomenon in his presence, and it was fucking work related.
But Ian’s work was important to him. Ian was excited about whatever it was that he’d learned. Mickey only had twenty four hours to bask in the presence of the one soul made for him, and he refused to waste that little time by wallowing in self-pity. He zoned back in, he fought to pay attention.
“It took years to notice, because like, obviously they weren’t even looking for it,” Ian said, and Mickey prayed he said something to provide context. “I mean, most people don’t even get one brain scan in their lives, nevermind multiple, and so much time apart. But then they started to see a pattern-”
“Okay, wait.” Mickey was not keeping up. “I missed that, I zoned out a little. What about brains?”
“There’s been studies to determine whether or not meeting your soulmate can re-wire your brain,” Ian explained. “Apparently there’s been a pattern where people’s brain scans from before and after they’ve met their soulmates have shown different results.”
“What would that mean, exactly?”
“Hard to say,” Ian shrugged, but his eyes and smile were still bright and excited. “There’s still a lot of research needed. But, there have been cases of brains re-wiring in other scenarios. Like, a guy waking up from a coma and speaking a foreign language entirely fluently. A woman who was a registered blood donor for years suddenly fainted at the sight of blood after having a seizure.”
“What’s that got to do with soulmates?”
“The leading theory is that the actual emotional reaction of meeting your soulmate may be able to re-wire the brain. People respond to things in a way they wouldn’t have before, presumably because their brains are now built to center their soulmate in a way they weren’t before. Like, instincts, and knee-jerk reactions.”
“Well,” Mickey almost scoffed. “My knee-jerk reaction has always been fight or flight. I’m a survivor, man. I don’t think I can ever see that changing.”
Mickey had felt the searing, all-encompassing reaction his body had had to Ian’s presence. He’d felt the pull, and he knew there was at least some truth in whatever Ian was saying. But he couldn’t reconcile it with the way he’d had to live his life so far.
Mickey watched, wounded, as Ian’s eyes shuttered slightly, how his grin shrank. It was obvious that he’d done some damage with his sharp tongue. But it was far from the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. He had never wanted to hurt Ian, and the realisation that he had - in any capacity - had hurt him too. The hollow in the valley of his chest ached, and he itched to reach across the table. He knew Ian took his job seriously, and he hadn’t meant to be so dismissive. But people like Mickey didn’t get happy endings. Soulmates were reserved for people like Ian, people like Mandy, for people who knew how to give and receive love.
“That’s why I don’t talk about Chicago,” Mickey finally said. He wanted Ian to understand, even just a little, that he hadn’t said what he had said to hurt him. “I fought every fucking day, just to live. But I had to make compromises, had to sacrifice. Had to make myself smaller. Until I just couldn’t fight any more. So I ran instead. Been running ever since. And I can’t ever go back there.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian said, and it was genuine and empathetic in the way that Mickey was learning Ian to be. “Strange how we grew up so close together. Small world, huh? If things had been different we maybe would’ve met as kids.”
Mickey tried to imagine it. Ian probably thought about them holding hands on the swing-set, playing on the same little league team. Cute, fantastical notions of first loves, picnic blankets and star-gazing. But, the reality would have been gritty, violent. Mickey would have buried everything that he had felt, just like he’d always done. He would have still had to fight, to hide from Terry. He would never have put Ian in the line of fire. So, in the end, perhaps it was better that it had happened the way it did.
There was a dramatic irony in the fact that Mickey had travelled the entirety of the United States (except Hawaii), and refused to set roots anywhere, only to find he was cosmically bound to a guy who had grown up just a stone's throw away. There was probably some philosophical mumbo-jumbo about how any road will get you there and all roads lead home, like the beginning and end of Mickey’s life would always be Chicago. South Side forever, apparently.
Mickey wasn’t willing to dwell on the devastation of his life for a moment longer. He didn’t want to sit at this table with their now room temperature pitcher of beer, and listen to Ian wax poetic about soulmates, about the one person Ian would meet one day who would re-route his entire fucking brain so that they would always be what mattered to him. Mickey wanted to matter to him. But Mickey would take what he could get.
In a move that made his intentions abundantly clear, Mickey placed his hand atop Ian’s knee under the table. His fingers stretched up over the cap, reached to the inside seam of his jeans, danced to his inner thigh. The denim was warm and worn under his hands, and he watched enraptured as Ian shifted noticeably in his chair.
The next few minutes were a blur. Ian took charge immediately, he slung some bills onto the table to cover their tab, then grabbed Mickey by the wrist. Mickey had barely a moment to marvel at how Ian’s long fingers encircled his entire wrist, and briefly imagined them around the column of his throat instead, before Ian was tangling their fingers together and practically dragging him down the street.
He was so caught up in the heat of Ian’s grip, the way the point of contact seemed to radiate warmth throughout his whole body, that he didn’t pay attention to where they were going. He’d never held anybody’s hand before, he realised fleetingly as his fingers clenched around Ian’s. He wished he wouldn’t ever have to let go. It took mere minutes to arrive at the Bed and Breakfast where Ian was staying.
Next thing he knew, he was splayed out on the bed, entirely naked, with Ian hovering over him. Now that they were alone, Ian’s urgency had seemed to calm. His eyes shone as he drank Mickey in, and Mickey wanted to curl into himself, the open admiration would have usually made him uncomfortable. But, as he held Ian’s gaze, he was immobilized by it, only concerned with how mesmerized Ian looked. He was turned on, that much was obvious, but there was something deeper there too, something warm and soft. Nobody had ever looked at Mickey like that before, and he didn’t know what to do with it.
Then Ian leaned in and their lips met for the first time. Despite being kissed only a handful of times in his life Mickey instinctively knew how to meet Ian move for move, to give as good as he got. They kissed until their lips were swollen, and Mickey could only yield and melt into the pillows. Ian’s teeth scraped and tugged at Mickey’s bottom lip as he pulled away, and he trailed fiery kisses down Mickey’s neck to his collar bone, where he began to nibble.
Mikey knew there would be marks. He never let anybody leave marks. He usually didn’t kiss. He didn’t have sex face-to-face with the lights on, he normally wasn’t on a bed. Hell, he normally wasn’t even fully undressed. But he was laid bare in the lamp light for Ian. And though he felt somewhat exposed, he didn’t feel vulnerable. It all just felt intimate. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t have the urge to run.
“Hold on,” Ian murmured.
He dug a bottle of lube and some condoms from the duffel bag under the bed and smiled at Mickey so gently. This wasn’t how these things usually went. Mickey’s hands kept caressing up and down the length of Ian’s arms, like he couldn’t bear to not be touching him. Their eyes caught and held as Ian coated his fingers and spread Mickey’s legs wider. He bent down to kiss Mickey’s skin, just where the hip met the groin, ignoring his painfully hard cock. It was so soft a kiss that he barely felt it. He was more aware of Ian’s hot breath than he was the brush of his lips. His hands cupped Mickey’s cheeks gently before his lubed fingers made their way to his hole.
“Okay?” Ian asked.
For a second, Mickey fought the urge to scoff. Of course it was fucking okay, he was hard as nails. Nobody had ever asked that before. Did Ian want an engraved invitation? But, then the reality set in. Ian was asking him if he felt good, if he wanted to keep going. Ian was thinking about Mickey and his pleasure, not just getting his own rocks off. His breath caught and hitched.
“Yeah,” Mickey husked. “Anything. Everything.”
And then it started. One finger became two, then up to three. Mickey was a squirming, panting mess. He’d probably blow his load if Ian so much as breathed on his dick at this rate. But Ian was insistent, he was gentle and unhurried. He treated Mickey like he was precious. Nobody had ever taken the time to prep Mickey thoroughly, and if he were being honest, he’d never taken the time to prep anybody he’d topped thoroughly either.
Sex had always been a means to an end. It was to scratch an itch. Mickey didn’t care to learn the tells of men he barely cared to get the names of. Mickey didn’t have enough genuine experience to really know his own tells. He knew he liked to bottom, he knew he rarely felt comfortable enough to let himself have it that way.
With Ian, everything felt new. Just the sensation of their sweat slicked skin pressed together made Mickey wild. He’d been reduced to monosyllables, mostly stuttering breaths. It would be embarrassing if he had the brain power left to feel that way. And finally, when he thought he couldn’t possibly take anymore, Ian’s fingers withdrew.
Mickey grunted lightly at the loss and Ian kissed the sound from his mouth. Ian trailed kisses along his jaw, his free hand reached to scratch through Mickey’s hair. Their eyes locked again and Mickey surged to press their lips together once more. They kissed and kissed, their lips locked together as Ian’s arms hooked behind his knees and dragged him closer, his legs further splayed, up and out.
He felt the blunt head of Ian’s cock right where he wanted it. But Ian didn’t make that final move. He simply held Mickey’s gaze for a long moment. Mickey thought he might just combust.
“You still want this?” Ian asked gently.
“Yes,” Mickey kinda wanted to strangle him and kiss him stupid at the same time. “Yes, I fucking want this. Fuck.”
Ian smirked a little as he eased forward. Mickey’s lips fell open on a gasp, his head dropped back and his throat was bared to Ian’s hungry mouth. Slowly, maddeningly slowly, Ian pushed in. Mickey’s fingers gripped and flexed against Ian’s freckled shoulders. He was sure he’d leave bruises. When Ian was fully seated, he paused for a moment. They panted softly into each other’s mouths, both of them stunned into silence. Mickey had never felt so a part of somebody before. Then, with a cheeky little grin, Ian pecked a chaste kiss to the tip of Mickey’s nose. It was so cute, so absurd in the circumstances that Mickey huffed a laugh.
But that laugh was stolen from him as Ian drew back and thrust forward. It was hard, strong and sure, a delicious contrast to his earlier tenderness. Each drive in was purposeful, deep and electrifying. Mickey felt wanton with it. Ian’s grunts were low and sexy, sometimes breaking up into little gasps when Mickey clenched just right. Then Ian’s rhythm faltered, he was buried to the hilt when he leaned forward to rest his forehead against Mickey’s. His eyes were scrunched shut and sweat was dripping from his brow.
“You feel so fucking good,” Ian murmurded in a voice that was husky and wrecked.
“Right back at ya.” Mickey knew they were both close.
Steeling himself and gritting his teeth, Ian pulled back and started thrusting again. Slower this time, hard and deep, but slow. They were pressed together everywhere, the friction of Ian’s abs against his cock along with each maddening thrust was gonna be enough to get him there if they kept this up. But still, despite how powerful it felt, it still felt gentle. It felt purposeful. And suddenly Mickey’s eyes grew misty. He tried to blink away the sensation, but everything was just too much. Too intense. Too good. Too right in a way that nothing else had ever been.
Mickey’s orgasm crashed over him in a tidal wave so fierce he blacked out for a second or two. Ian was chasing his own release, thrusting frantically and without rhythm until he stuttered to a stop with a groan. He collapsed onto Mickey’s chest, and Mickey instinctively began to pet his hair, and stroke his back.
Mickey had never given a second of thought to what sex with your soulmate would be like. He would have scoffed at the concept of belonging to another person. But, in the afterglow of what they’d shared, Mikey finally understood. Maybe it didn’t feel as monumental to Ian. Maybe Ian had slow, tender sex with every guy he hooked up with.
But Mickey felt ripped open, flayed alive and overly exposed. His heart could be spooled out onto the bed sheets and Mickey would hold it out to Ian before he even tried to put it back in his own chest. His breaths stuttered as he continued to blink away the sting of tears. He couldn’t have this forever, but he’d at least gotten to have it once. Because it wasn’t sex, it was love.
Mickey Milkovich had never known how to give and receive love. But he’d finally come close.
“I’m such a bottom,” Mickey mused aloud, still a little dick-drunk.
Ian snorted incredulously, but when he pulled back his eyes danced with mirth. Then he pulled out gently, and heaved off the bed to head into the bathroom. Mickey watched him go with a small smile. But reality quickly set in. Ian’s duffel back lay on the floor, half under the bed and still unpacked. Because Ian had a home to get back to. Ian didn’t belong here.
Mickey quickly retrieved his clothes and redressed. He was tying his boots when Ian returned. He had a soft, damp flannel in hand as if he was going to wipe Mickey down. Mickey had to bite his own lip to keep from sobbing. He couldn’t look Ian in the eye.
“You’re not gonna stay?” Ian asked, and his voice sounded so small.
“Never do.” Mickey shrugged.
Ian may be the exception to every single rule, but Mickey couldn’t let him know that. The lines that Mickey had drawn, the boundaries he had set were for lesser men, for every other man who wasn’t Ian. But he needed to rebuild those walls brick by brick, pretend that Ian hadn’t bulldozed right through them.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Ian said a little desperately. “After breakfast.”
Mickey clenched his eyes shut. He had thought back at the bar that he’d have twenty four hours with Ian, he’d hoped that would be enough. But now here he was, running away like he always did, forfeiting the little time they had left, so much less time than what he’d originally thought. Somewhere out there Ian had a soulmate, and Mickey would spend the rest of his life alone. Every second he spent with Ian was only pressing on a bruise.
“You’re not even gonna say goodbye?” Ian asked then, and his voice had grown thick, like he might cry.
“I can’t,” Mickey breathed.
“Why not?” Ian demanded, getting some fire back. “You won’t even look at me!”
How could Mickey let Ian down gently when there was nothing gentle about the way his insides had turned themselves out. There was nothing tender in the way his heart fought to leap straight through his ribs. There was nothing kind in this cruel twist of fate that had seen fit to show Mickey a glimpse of something he’d never have. Don’t you get it? He wanted to rage. If I don’t leave, I have to watch you leave instead. He wouldn’t survive it.
“Please,” Ian begged. “Mickey…What’s wrong?”
“You’re my soulmate!” Mickey yelled, raising his head to look Ian in the eye as the words burst from him, filled with vengeful heartache. “You’re my soulmate, and I’m not yours, and that’s fine. It’s not your fault. But don’t make me watch you go!”
The silence that fell between them after his outburst was suffocating. They stared at each other, their chests heaved with their panting breaths. Mickey blinked away that tell-tale sting. God, he hadn’t cried since he’d left Chicago, but Ian had turned him into a blubbering mess. The look on Ian’s face was undecipherable, there was a furrow between his brows that Mickey yearned to smooth away with his thumb. For a moment they were both desperately sad.
Then something flashed in Ian’s eyes, and he was across the room. He had Mickey pressed against the door and his tongue in his mouth, and Mickey hadn’t been expecting this reaction. But still, he melted into the kiss, because he would take every piece of Ian he could get. He would tuck them away and cherish them forever.
“You’re so fucking stupid,” Ian breathed into his mouth. “Of course I’m your soulmate.”
“What?” Mickey asked, stunned.
Ian took his hands and led him back to the bed, where they sat side by side. Mickey was dumbfounded, confused and hurt. He’d been agonizing over this for hours. How could it be true?
“You’re my soulmate,” Ian repeated gently. He toyed with Mickey’s fingers lightly as he held his hands. “Ya know, it’s funny. I didn’t even really believe in soulmates until yesterday. But, seeing those brain scans, hearing the data, the patients’ statements. It was like holy shit, there’s gonna be someone out there who can love me! It was all I thought about the entire drive down. Then, there you were.”
“You didn’t say anything,” Mickey finally said, after a moment of pondering Ian’s words. His voice sounded choked. “You just introduced yourself, invited me to the bar, and walked away. You didn’t even look back. You just…You walked away. You left me on the boardwalk thinking I was alone in what I was feeling.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian said. His eyes shone with unshed tears and the pain in his voice was evident. “I felt it. Of course I did. But, I can’t always trust my own feelings. It was so intense and I just didn’t know if it was real, if I could believe it. I’d been thinking about the soulmate thing for twenty four hours straight, and I thought maybe my mind was playing tricks on me again. I panicked that I had gotten triggered somehow and my mind was projecting my thoughts onto the first hot guy I saw. Especially when you didn’t say anything. I tried to get my head on straight, tried to take a step back to make sure. So, then I brought up soulmates and you brushed it off! Fuck, Mickey. I was about to go home and call my fucking shrink.”
Realization crashed over Mickey. Ian had felt it too. Ian had done all of this, walked away, invited him out, talked to him for hours just to see if they were on the same page. He’d just wanted to believe it was real. And Mickey was apparently so fucked up by his own life that he’d sooner believe a soul bond could be one-sided than realise what was right in front of him. He’d made Ian question his sanity.
“I’m so fucking stupid,” he muttered self-deprecatingly.
“That’s okay,” Ian said softly. “But do me a favour?”
“What?”
“Stop running.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“It means,” Ian started gently, and he leaned over to kiss Mickey’s hairline. “Come back to Milwaukee with me.”
Mickey took a deep, steady breath. He’d been running so long that he didn’t know how to stop. He’d started running because he couldn’t keep fighting a losing battle between who he was and who Terry wanted him to be. His whole life had been fight or flight. Instincts. Knee-jerk reactions.
But his center of gravity had shifted. His brain had been re-wired.
It was time to stop running. It was time to fight for a life for himself instead. It was time to fight for the kind of love he’d never thought was possible, the kind of love his little sister had chased after. It was time to fight for Ian.
“Okay.”