8(I wrote most of this whilst I was high, so that's my excuse)
In a fit of restlessness, the type that has your leg jumping updownupdown and your fingers drumming out random beats on your thigh without you even realising, Mickey texts Ian.
It's not all that late and Mickey woke up at noon, yet it still feels like he's been up for fucking ever, the hours slowly trickling by.
The house is empty, though. Mickey would usually take advantage of that: inviting Ian over to fuck or just sitting back, music blaring as he plays Black Ops. But today the hot air is clinging to his skin; and unwanted extra layer doing nothing but adding to his already impossibly high body temperature.
He text Ian to meet him at the baseball field. Doesn't know why and he doesn't even stash a pack of lube in his pocket (and like seriously, what kind of crazy shit is going down if Mickey doesn't want to fuck?). Instead he pockets his phone, a lighter, pack of smokes and a joint before leaving, not caring that Ian hasn't text back yet. As if he's gonna say no.
...
The moon shines, huge and bright, in the darkening sky, Mickey's only source of light. Clear of any clouds, the sky looks so - clean, any and all imperfections swept away with the wind.
Mickey takes a third drag on the joint and thinks he needs to get the number of Iggy's dealer 'cause this shit is good. The short grass tickles the backs of his arms and his limbs feel all heavy but kind of like they're floating at the same time. He blows smoke rings and watches, entranced, as they expand and fade away.
...
He hears Ian before he sees him. His eyes are closed and he guesses what people say about blind people having better hearing is true; Ian's sneakers brushing across the ground sounds close, like he's right beside him, but Ian's at least ten feet away when he eventually looks.
Ian begins walking slower the closer he gets. "You stoned?" he asks, coming to a stop by Mickey's thigh, hands in his pockets.
Mickey is really, really stoned. Really stoned. So much so that he doesn't stamp down on the urge to get his hand around Ian's ankle. The skin is soft there and the sharp jut of Ian's anklebone fits in the curve of Mickey's palm.
"Wow, so seriously high, then." Ian crouches down, shoves a hand in Mickey's face, waving it about. Mickey bats him away and Ian lies down beside him. "Just checking you're actually still in there."
"Fuck else would I be?"
"Not sure. Maybe some parallel universe where stroking my ankle is an everyday occurrence for you."
Mickey's eyes drift closed again. "Look at you throwin' 'round those SAT words."
Snorting, Ian asks, "What words in that sentence do you consider SAT words?"
Mickey doesn't even know, too lost in the feeling of Ian's bare arm pressed up against his. It's nice. Ian is warm but it doesn't make Mickey feel gross and sweaty. Instead it has him wanting more; the weight of Ian pushing down against him, strong and solid and heavy.
The feel of Ian's lips against his is still a memory in the forefront of his mind. Has been since it first happened. They've kissed again since, in a completely different way. Hard and frantic, teeth biting at lips and tongues working together. It was the kind of intense Mickey never knew kissing could be and he felt like such a fucking fag for thinking that, for thinking that maybe it was just Ian. It's fucking always just Ian.
He only realises he's been staring at him when Ian twists and looks into his eyes. "Wanna stargaze?" he asks, smirking.
Mickey looks away and up at the sky. For once, the stars are starkly visible, little dots of light in amongst the dark. "'Ey, there's Corona Borealis," he says, vaguely pointing at t.
"You know constellations?" Ian asks, incredulity making his voice amusingly high.
Mickey snorts. "'Course, man." He takes in Ian's dubiously raised eyebrows and says, "Fuck you, space is badass," because it is.
The sound of Ian's laughter makes the corners of Mickey's mouth tick up.
"Mm, know any more?"
"Yeah."
"Any of 'em out?"
Mickey laughs quietly to himself (he's actually giggling, but fuck off) because constellations don't just come out and then go away. "Uh..." he scans the sky, looking for ones he recognises, "yeah, there's Ophiuchus."
Ian follows the line Mickey's arm makes and says, "I can't even see - what stars make it?"
Without thinking of any reason not to, Mickey reaches down for Ian's hand and holds it up, moving it to point at each individual star until Ian says, barely above a whisper, "Oh yeah."
Slowly, Mickey drops his hand, fingers lingering on Ian's wrist, feeling his pulse.
After a moment of blissful silence, Ian starts up a conversation. One-sided because Mickey is barely even listening, just catches a few words about some project Debbie is doing about planets and shit.
His voice is quiet and low, like there's any need to be quiet right now with no-one around. Mickey likes it. Thinks maybe this is what it would be like if it was just the two of them left. Quiet and hushed, but not because they need to be.
The more Ian talks, though, the more Mickey wants to shut him up. With his mouth.
"Gallagher," he says, cracking his eyes open and reaching a hand out to touch Ian's hip, "shut the fuck up."
Ian gets up on one elbow, leaning over him. "Feel like I should say 'make me'."
Mickey curls his hand around Ian's hipbone, starts to open his legs. "Why don't you?"
Ian smiles, so fucking wide and - shit, fucking nice. He scoots closer, brings his face down so that there are only a few inches between them. "Make m-"
Mickey doesn't let him finish; his free hand clasps the back of Ian's neck, bringing him close enough so that he can press their lips together. The sensation feels so fucking good and right. Like, why do they ever stop making out? Mickey wants to know and he'd actually ask if Ian didn't take that moment to move between his legs, arms either side of his head.
Hands going to Ian's back, Mickey licks into his mouth. It is so fucking filthy and hot and Ian is just taking him apart right now with little bites to Mickey's bottom lip and swipes of his tongue.
Mickey feels like he's sinking into the ground beneath him. Kinda like that creepy as shit scene in Trainspotting only less creepy and more-
A groan leaves his mouth and gets swallowed by Ian's when Ian kneels up a bit, wraps one of Mickey's legs around his thigh and rolls his hips. With a satisfied smile, Ian bends down again, starts to suck a hickey on Mickey's neck, just above his collarbone. Mickey wraps his other leg around Ian and shoves his hands up the back of Ian's t-shirt, hands splaying across his ribs, rolling his hips upwards.
Their bodies begin moving together, like some sort of wave. Mickey can feel that Ian's hard and he is, too, aching to get off even if it means jizzing in his pants like a thirteen year old.
Ian puts his mouth back to work on Mickey's, lips moving to the same rhythm as his hips. Mickey drags his palms up higher to Ian's shoulderblades and he can feel how they move every time Ian's upper body dips down.
Then Mickey pulls back, head thunking against the ground. "Fuuuuck," he groans, "I'm fuckin' starving, man, I feel empty." He has a serious case of the munchies, always gets them when he smokes a joint to himself.
Ian nips his earlobe, lowly rumbles in his ear, "Maybe 'cause I don't have my dick in you."
The thought of Ian's dick up his ass is, as usual, really appealing. Then again so is the thought of fries in his stomach, so.
"After you buy me McDonalds."
Smiling slightly, in a way that makes him look like a fucking Boy Scout, Ian kneels back on his haunches. "Why is it me who's buying?"
Mickey sits up, leans forward and tugs Ian's bottom lip with his teeth. Because he can and fuck it, he wants to. "'Cause," he starts, moving backwards and standing, "I'll be the one bending over for you later." He smirks at Ian's expression, gets out a cigarette, lights it. When he begins to walk backwards, smirk still plastered on his face, Ian rushes to his feet and over to him.
Once Mickey's turnt around Ian shoves his back, causing Mickey's top half to lurch forward, and they tussle their way down streets and across roads.
...
Ian buys Mickey two portions of large fries and a vanilla milkshake, getting a chocolate one for himself. The place is loud and busy, people dressed up, stocking up on food before they get shitfaced; tired-looking parents with kids who most probably begged them to take them here; groups of teenagers being obnoxious.
Mickey's not quite as high as he was at the field, has only earned a few judgmental looks. Still, he feels it enough to stretch his leg out, resting his foot on the booth between Ian's legs across from him.
Ian's still talking happily about how good it is be back home, to see his kid sister and brothers (of course he is, fucking loves the rugrats) when Mickey presses his sneakered foot forward, right up against Ian's crotch.
The reaction is instantaneous. With a choked groan, Ian's mouth snaps shut.
Mickey simply dips three fries into the barbecue sauce and shoves them into his mouth.
Now that they're in the light, Mickey can fully appreciate how Ian fills out his t-shirt. Tight against his biceps, looser around his toned stomach. He tries not to be too obvious about it but Ian must pick up on it anyways.
"See something you like?" he teases, resting his arms along the back of the booth.
Mickey rolls his eyes, throws his balled up straw wrapper at him. "Nah, that's why I'm fuckin' lookin'," he says, pressing his foot against Ian again.
The smile Mickey gets in return is brighter than the lights overhead and he's helpless, smiling back before he convinces himself not to.
This all feels suspiciously like some kind of date. Like, they actually did stargaze. That's a fucking thing they did, jesus. And now they're here, sitting across from each other and it just - it's weird. Maybe not bad weird, but still weird. Not enough like how they usually hang out for it to feel normal; too many smiles and not enough sarcastic banter or innuendo.
So as they continue to eat and drink, every now and then Mickey will rub his foot against Ian's dick. A reminder that this is still sexual. Like some weird-ass form of foreplay or some shit. It makes Mickey breathe a little easier and Ian's cheeks go pink, so its a win-win.
...
They stay for close to an hour, until it's just past midnight, talking about nothing of importance. Halfway through, Ian started to untie Mickey's laces, saying he didn't want his dick getting bruised or something by Mickey's foot. The sneaker is by his side and Ian's hand has been on his ankle ever since, thumb working in little circles. It's way more calming than it should be and feels so good that Mickey's reluctant to take his foot and sneaker back so that he can go to the bathroom.
He's completely sober now, realises he has been for a while. And he was still so relaxed with Ian, with showing him that he gives a shit. He doesn't know whether to be pleased or pissed off. Settles somewhere inbetween.
Because he's let his guard down. Taken off his mask and all those other bullshit metaphors that just mean that you've grown the balls to stop faking it.
Most likely Ian already knew - Mandy's told him that he's least subtle person in the world (which is fucking ironic) - so he doesn't feel the need to say anything. Probably wouldn't even if he did.
But the kissing is fucking hot, more than he thought it'd be, and the other stuff, the casual touches and lingering looks, well, they just feel so natural.
Fuck.
Mickey splashes his face and avoids looking at his reflection. All he needs is to chill out.
Leaning against the wall by the bathroom doors, Ian is waiting for him when he comes out. Takes Mickey's elbow and leads him outside. When Ian lets go, Mickey lights a cigarette and follows him, confused, down the alleyway behind the building.
They get smothered by the shadows, slipping into the darkness and out of sight.
"Am I gonna end up in a dumpster?" Mickey asks, sole of his foot against the wall, smoke drifting from his cigarette.
Ian looks considering. "No, probably not." He licks his lips, inching closer.
Oh, so it's like that. "In an alleyway? Seriously?" Ian shrugs. "The fuck am I, a hustler? You my john?"
Ian chuckles, a deep, throaty sound. "Like I'd pay you," he says, now even closer.
"Sure you would," Mickey states, blowing smoke in Ian's face. He puts it out on the wall then flicks it away, not caring where it ends up because now Ian's right up in his space, crowding against him.
"Yeah, probably," he says with a reluctant smile but serious eyes. Has this just gone from joking to actual honesty? "You'd possibly be worth it." Ian leans down and drops a kiss to Mickey's lips.
"Only possibly?" Mickey ignores the shakiness of his voice, fakes a dirty smile that Ian can't even see, they're that close.
Ian hums and kisses Mickey again, gets a hand up Mickey's vest and on his waist. He licks and sucks Mickey's bottom lip, teasing at it before coaxing Mickey's mouth open.
Mickey feels breathless with it, fingers digging into the nape of Ian's neck just so that he has something to hold onto, ground him. Ian kisses like he does most things: focused and sincere and with his fucking heart on his sleeve. Words are whispered against Mickey's lips, moans, too. It's more than Mickey usually hears when they're actually fucking and he's so turned on right now he can barely even think.
"Fuck, come on." He shoves at Ian chest but only manages to push him away about an inch. "Man, we're not fucking in an alley."
Ian slides up to him, softly brushes his lips against Mickey's and says, "Since when do you care where we fuck?"
"Since I have a free house, dickhead." This time Ian backs up when Mickey pushes him. "Plus I ain't havin' you fuck me with just spit, man." The one time they did that when they were too horny and desperate to wait, it fucking hurt. And not in a good way.
"Fair enough. Sure nobody's gonna be home, though?"
They begin walking back out, following the dim light of the streetlights until everything is lit up in a golden glow around them.
"Yeah. My dad and brothers are in, like, fucking Florida and Mandy's always out, so." Mickey doesn't know what to do with his hands, is about to light up another cigarette simply to be doing something when the choice gets taken from him. "What the fuck. Are you doing?"
Ian laughs and squeezes his hand. "Isn't this what people do when they go on their first date? Hold hands?"
Mickey groans loudly to himself over the sound of Ian's laughter and yanks his hand free. "You're the biggest douchebag I know, man." He does light a cigarette now, mumbling to himself, "Fuckin' first date," like he can't believe those words left Ian's mouth in relation to them.
"What would you call it then?" Ian asks, not dropping it like Mickey hoped, taking the cigarette when Mickey offers it. "We looked at the stars and then got milkshakes."
"Ugh, fuck off."
"Plus I paid for it all."
"Fuck. off."
"And you played footsie with my dick."
Mickey abruptly stops walking and glares at Ian's grinning face. "I swear to christ, man, I'll fucking push you into oncoming traffic if you don't shut up."
"Yeah, no you wouldn't," Ian says, full of confidence.
And it isn't misplaced because that's about the last thing Mickey'd do to him. He misses the times when his threats held even a semblance of truth. Of course Ian knows this, Mickey's just that lucky.
"Come on," Ian taps him on the arm and starts walking again.
Mickey watches him for a few seconds. Simply watches. Fleetingly thinks this has probably been one of the best nights they've had. He's had. And it's gay as fuck and he'll never say it, but thinking about it doesn't fill him with dread. Fuck, it makes him happy.
Just as he catches up to Ian, he takes the cigarette from him, fingers lingering for a little while and Ian smiles at him, wide and carefree.