So this is the third installment in the A Move Too Far 'verse, so I guess reading that (and maybe the other two one-shots) would help with knowing who some of these characters are etc, but I don't suppose it's essential? I dunno. Chapter two will hopefully be up by the weekend.
Mickey would like it known that this wasn't his idea at all. Not even a little bit. He had plans for Dylan's bachelor party; simple, nothing over the top, but a guaranteed good time. Nate, Dylan's fucking brother who Mickey wants to deck every time he sees him, had other ideas, though.
That's why they're currently in his huge apartment, awful music blaring out of obnoxiously large speakers, a mass of people practically fucking dry-humping instead of dancing. That's another thing: there are a fuckton of people. Mickey recognises maybe 43% of them seeing as they're actually his and Dylan's friends, but there are a group of guys that are clearly Nate's college buddies who Mickey neither knows nor has any desire to. They're dressed in fucking polos for fuck's sake. Two of them have their collars popped.
Mickey sinks further back into the couch, sipping his beer. If he wanted to hang out with a bunch of douchebag homophobes he would've headed home.
Ian, sat beside him, tucks one leg under the other, his knee resting on Mickey's thigh. "Could you at least pretend to be having fun?" he asks, right in Mickey's ear, his warm breath forcing Mickey to suppress a shiver.
And fuck, he doesn't need to be getting turned on right now. "This - just - fuck, I hate the prick."
"I know."
Mickey side-eyes Ian and realises just how badly he wants to kiss the shit out of him (ignores that voice in his head that reminds him he always wants to) and licks his lips. He quickly glances around, sees that nobody is looking their way and places a short, hard kiss against Ian's lips. Gets pulled closer by Ian's hand on his neck and ends up making out with him for a solid minute before Jake comes up to them, drunk off his ass, and falls onto Ian's lap.
Ian laughs, takes the glass out of Jake's hand and takes a swig. "The fuck is this?" he asks, grimacing. His empty hand goes to Jake's waist and Mickey'd maybe say something about it if Jake weren't the president of the Mickey And Ian Fanclub. Plus the guy is hopelessly gone for Nate. Nate The Homophobe. Mickey doesn't get how Jake's mind works.
Jake giggles, shouts, "Liquor!", before straightening out the little black bow-tie he's wearing, doing the same to his light blue shirt and rushing back to dance.
"I can't believe the two of you dated." Ian takes another sip of Jake's drink, grimaces again and then places it on the solid white table by his side.
Mickey hums noncommittally, surveying the crowd. He honestly just wants to get wasted but he also knows that Dylan will be and when Dylan gets drunk he gets stupid and does stupid shit. Stupid shit that he shouldn't do two days before he gets married. Thus Mickey has resigned himself to sipping on the same beer for the past hour and will only let himself get tipsy because Zoe will probably murder him if he doesn't keep an eye on Dylan.
Still, the urge to join in when everyone does shots, to ask the guy at the bar (who Nate fucking hired to serve drinks, pretentious douche) for something harder than a beer is growing stronger with every second he spends here. Which sucks because he wanted to have a good time, celebrate with Dylan and Ian and their friends and instead he has to keep his hands to himself lest he knock someone out, listen to shitty music over banal conversation and brood over how much better his version of this night would've gone.
He sighs heavily and shifts about. Like he'll gain a good mood so long as he's sat comfortably enough.
He catches sight of Dylan near the kitchen staring helplessly back at him. Mickey quirks an eyebrow and Dylan responds by jerking his head back and pointing to the quieter hallway.
"'Ey," he taps Ian's side until he looks at him, "gonna go talk Dylan out of slitting his wrists."
Ian smirks. "'Kay." He smiles and it's his drunken, goofy smile and Mickey rolls his eyes at him as he gets up.
It becomes increasingly difficult to weave his way through the crowd when a new song comes on. A couple of girls think that he's getting closer to them because he wants to dance and they sidle up to him. He glares at them and pushes the manicured hand off of his shoulder, bumping into what have to be friends Nate has from football because they're fucking giant.
Finally at Dylan's side, Mickey says, "What's up?", taking in how messed up Dylan's hair is, undoubtedly from his hands running through it.
Dylan scratches his stomach, an odd nervous habit he has, and Mickey eyes his Mick Jagger t-shirt. "Dude, I've had two girls hit on me," he says, back hitting the wall, chin to his chest. "Seriously, half of 'em don't even know why they're here. Just came for the booze." He runs both hands over his face and then through his hair.
Mickey chews on his bottom lip, unsure of what to do or say. Because what Dylan is saying is true and he's equally pissed off about it. He settles on, "Fuckin' sucks, man", and wishes that Nate didn't have a stupid rule about no smoking in his house.
Smiling at him, Dylan settles his head back against the wall. "Damn, you're even moodier than me."
"Fuck you, man. And I had plans for tonight before fuckin' Nate steamrolled 'em all. Dick." Belatedly, Mickey realises he's kind of broken the rule about bad-mouthing Dylan's brother. After Lily was born Nate was around more and so Dylan said, even though he mostly agrees with what Mickey says, to maybe lay off when he's around. He's lasted a solid month until now. "Sorry," he says, sheepish.
Dylan waves a hand. "S'cool."
"Why don't you just tell him you wanna go to a bar or something?"
"'Cause this is him bein', like, carin'." Mickey snorts. "No seriously, he actually thinks this is something I'd enjoy and I could tell how butthurt he was about not bein' my best man, so y'know..." he trails off with a shrug.
Mickey wants to say how if Nate really gave a shit he'd actually know what kind of bachelor party Dylan'd like, but he doesn't. "Just, I dunno, suggest it? Say about how this was great but you wanna go out. Somethin' like that."
Dylan scuffs his boot against the carpet and sighs. Mickey bites his tongue on a comment about pity parties. "Yeah, okay." He pushes off of the wall and loops an arm around Mickey's shoulders, dragging him back into the living room. "Thanks for the support, babe," he mumbles into Mickey's ear and Mickey can feel his smile against his earlobe and squirms away before Dylan bites it or something equally gay.
He can't believe Dylan's getting married. For a lot of reasons, actually, but it makes a lot of sense in the weirdest way; he and Zoe are the kind of perfect that makes Mickey want to hurl and smile at the same time. It's awful to live with.
Ian is chatting away with Zoe's brother, Zach, who, up until a few months after Lily was born, was living in England. He has the weirdest fucking accent and it's taken Mickey a stupidly long time to be able to talk with him without cracking up. It still makes him chuckle now and then, like when he says 'ass' and 'dude'.
He walks over to them and resists (only just) telling Ian to knock it off when he puts an arm around him and starts kissing his temple. God, dude is fucking wasted already.
Zach smiles at them fondly, shaking his head as he sips his drink. He finds Mickey and Ian endlessly amusing because he thinks they make "the weirdest couple ever" and are "actually really cute, like it's so odd". Whatever, at least Mickey doesn't talk like a twat.
After a few minutes of listening to Ian slightly slur his words as he explains something to Zach, the music is cut off and everyone who was dancing groans.
"So for everyone who's here for the party, the party is over and for those of you who are here for the bachelor party, that'll continue and so y'all can stay. Everyone else can go, though." Nate hops off the speaker he was stood on and stars to herd all of his friends out of the door. How he even has friends is a fucking mystery to Mickey.
There are about fifteen people left, give or take, and they begin to huddle round Dylan as he explains where they're going with an excited smile.
...
The first bar they go to is okay. Crowded and loud and sweaty, but the music isn't awful, and there are secluded seating areas where Mickey can sit back and let Ian mark up his neck without anyone seeing.
He does this dumb giggle-snort when Ian noses just behind his ear because it fucking tickles and Ian knows that. "Fuck off," he grumbles. His voice is fond (fucking always is when he's talking to Ian nowadays, it's getting to be a problem) and Ian must pick up on it; he smiles into Mickey's neck, working his hand up the side of Mickey's shirt to rest it on Mickey's bare hip.
"Y'all realise you're in public, right?"
The voice sounds so much like Dylan's when he's drunk that Mickey doesn't bother opening his eyes until the same voice snaps, "Hey!" He looks up and sees Nate standing there, eyes half closed and face bright red.
He blows his bangs out of his face and repeats, "Y'all realise you're in public, right?", and this time it doesn't sound anything like Dylan. Nate sounds uncomfortable, veering on disgusted; Dylan would sound anything but.
"You realise you're a fuckin' ass'ole righ'?" Ian slurs, sitting up but keeping his hand on Mickey. "Why don' you go back to tryin' an' failin' to get a girl to fuck you."
Mickey barks out a startled laugh but pulls on Ian's t-shirt when he makes to stand. Weirdly enough, unlike Mickey, get Ian drunk enough and the smallest thing can make him into this huge ball of rage, starting fights with people he thinks have looked at them wrong; screaming and swearing, batting away Mickey's hands when he tries to pull him away. It mostly happens when they're out alone and literally fucking nobody believes Mickey when he tells them that Ian is actually the one they should be wary of when drunk.
For half a second he considers warning Nate, then just says, "Fuck off, man. Don't start shit, not tonight", because he can actually be a responsible adult.
Nate bristles, shoulders squaring, as if he's angry that Mickey is being the bigger person here. "Whatever," he says, "we're leavin' now, s'why I came lookin' for you."
He makes an impatient face and sighs, so Mickey hauls himself and Ian up onto their feet and gives Nate his own impatient look when, instead of moving so they can head toward the entrance, he stays stood right infront of them.
Ian giggles against Mickey's side. "Can' move wi' you righ' there."
Nate scowls at them and storms off, muttering to himself and Mickey follows with Ian clinging to him from behind.
...
Mickey doesn't know what's gone wrong in his life that he's ended up here, sat in a strip club. A strip club. He's been repeating it in his head over and over and it still sounds just as absurd.
One of the strippers drops to her knees right in front of him on the stage, starts to gyrate her hips in little circles. He grimaces slightly, flinches back. He's not eager to see anyone's fucking pussy, thanks.
Dylan is sat next to him round the little table and he's not watching exactly; little glances, some of them lingering, but nothing more. He's clearly uncomfortable and the rest of their friends don't seem to be that much better. Mostly, they're just pretending to strip themselves and ordering dirty sounding drinks.
Nate looks furious. Because of course this was his idea. To allow Dylan to enjoy one more night as a single man before he gets married. Which doesn't even make sense, because Dylan may not be married but he isn't anything close to single. And strippers have never been his thing. He admitted once that he's just impressed by the way they can hold themselves up in the air, not by their skimpy outfits.
The girl dancing works her way back to the pole just as Ian sits himself down in the seat beside Mickey. He places a vodka and coke in front of Mickey and has a bottle of water for himself. He isn't nearly as wasted as he was a few hours ago, but he's far from sober.
He'd slowed down his drinking when they were at the last two bars. Not that that stopped him from dancing like an idiot with Zach and Jake. It was fucking embarrassing to put it plainly. (Mickey doesn't want to even think about the moment when Ian bodily forced him onto the dancefloor, gripped his hips from behind and ground his crotch against Mickey's ass. Nor does he want to think about how much it turned him on.)
"Christ," Ian says, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arm on the back of Mickey's, "her abs are more impressive than mine."
Mickey absently says, "What abs?", and gets cuffed round the head for it.
"Wish you had abs like mine," Ian mumbles with the bottle in his mouth.
Mickey jabs him in the stomach so that he chokes on the water he swigged.
At the round table next to theirs, Nate loudly clears his throat and rolls his eyes, earning Ian's attention almost immediately.
"Got a fuckin' problem?" he asks, leaning closer to Nate.
Thankfully, Nate doesn't say a word. Instead he slips a few ones in the girl's thong and winks at her. Fucking smooth criminal, this guy. The girl mouths something at him and his face falls too fast for him to cover it up.
Mickey feels the urge to tip her.
"Hey, guys," their friend, Luke, says, "you gotta try these shots, they're fucking great." He starts to hand them out and Mickey looks dubiously at the bright green liquid before thinking 'fuck it' and downing it.
It's possible Luke got the words 'great' and 'disgusting' mixed up.
He pounds his fist against his chest, coughing. "Jesus," he wheezes. Ian squeezes his neck until Mickey faces him and then swipes his thumb against the corner of Mickey's mouth where some of the shot ended up. His thumb then slowly disappears between his smirking lips.
Nate groans from beside them. "Is nobody actually interested in the fact that there are strippers right in front of us?" He looks over at the group doing shots and paying exactly zero attention to the half-naked women and then at Mickey and Ian. He slumps down in his seat. "It's like bein' around a bunch of fags," he snorts to himself, "oh, wait."
And before Mickey can stop him, Ian is up out of his chair and has a hand clasping the neck of Nate's shirt. He moves so fast that Nate actually lets out a little yelp, that'd be hilarious and worthy of mocking in any other situation, and everybody else startles by the sudden movement.
"I swear to God, one more fucking thing, man," Ian is practically growling into Nate's face. The stubborn asshole keeps trying to push Mickey away but Mickey persists because he can't be dealing with the drama that will inevitably arise if Nate ends up with a black eye.
He gets his arm around Ian's waist and whispers in his ear to calm the fuck down and step outside.
Ian's fingers tighten, the fabric of Nate's shirt getting crumpled in his fist, and he only let's go when Mickey pulls at him as Dylan tells him to stop.
They stumble outside and the cool spring air has an instant calming effect for Ian. He paces for a moment, dimly illuminated by the streetlights, before sheepishly looking over at Mickey where he's leaning against the wall and lighting a smoke.
"Done?"
Ian half-shrugs and drags his feet to stand beside Mickey. "He just gets to me, y'know?" he says, taking the cigarette when Mickey offers it. He takes a drag and blows smoke towards the ground. "Guess - I dunno - I'm still not used to it? Like, you've been out and shit for a lot longer than me. I don't really handle it all that well."
Mickey snorts and takes back the cigarette. "No shit."
Zach walks out with a nod and purposely approaches Ian slowly, hands held up in mock surrender.
Though he's glaring, Mickey can see the beginnings of a smile at the corners of Ian's mouth and directs his own at Zach. "We leavin' anytime soon?" Mickey asks him.
As he lights his own cigarette (fucking menthols), Zach nods. "Yep. The guys are mostly still getting giddy over the shots and Dylan managed to persuade everyone to go back to your place."
Mickey relaxes slightly with that knowledge.
...
But being back at the apartment means that Ian feels comfortable enough to start drinking again and gets shitfaced. Like, for the second time tonight. And Mickey is only a little better: he isn't stumbling around everywhere and spilling his drink, but his words don't really sound right when speaks.
Dylan looks happy, though, lying on the floor in the living area and waxing poetic about Zoe and Lily, only stopping to play air guitar. He's got some classic rock CD on that everybody complained about.
In his drunken state, Mickey feels like life is fucking awesome right now. He has Ian and a job that pays good and requires minimum effort; the family members that matter to him, i.e. Mandy and Iggy, are living pretty good lives; he has friends that are only partial assholes and they're cool and always have great weed and yeah - he has Ian at his back, slipping his hands up his shirt and whispering in his ear how badly he wants to fuck Mickey.
So minus the tripping over stray shoes on their way to their bedroom, life is problem-free.
Somehow, they manage to get their shirts off before Mickey pushes Ian to the bed, drinking in how his eyes roam all over Mickey, from head-to-toe. Even now, after all this time, the fact that Ian looks at him like this, like he's fucking precious, is such a heady feeling that he just - can't.
Ian leans up on his elbows whilst Mickey gets to his knees and crawls so he's straddling his hips. Yeah, Mickey really wants to ride him.
They kiss sloppily for a few minutes; in the back of Mickey's mind, he takes note of how gross the sounds their mouths are making are. Like, seriously. But then Ian sucks on his tongue and that is all he can focus on.
When he finally gets tired of just rubbing against him, Mickey sits back with a hand to Ian's chest and wordlessly nods at Ian's jeans.
Ian smirks and he is so fucking drunk but so is Mickey so he guesses he must look just as stupid.
unsurprisingly, he couldn't care less.
He's able to wriggle his way out of his jeans and boxers then climbs back on top of Ian. He wants to bite down on that pale stretch of skin, that juncture where neck meets shoulder. Sink his teeth into flesh and feel the vibration of Ian's moan, make Ian fall apart in his arms.
But Ian can barely get it together to just unzip his own jeans, so Mickey shoves his hands away, pulls Ian's jeans and boxers down, blows him, and then jacks off onto Ian's heaving chest.
It wasn't exactly his initial plan but he falls asleep feeling sated and relaxed - he can't really complain.