Draw Me (Like One of Your French Girls)
Mickey liked to draw.
Before prison he drew vintage cars he saw on the street, he drew the skyscrapers he could see from outside their shitty neighborhood, he drew his house...how he wanted it to be, maybe when Terry finally died. He even drew Mandy a time or two, only he wouldn't tell her that.
Drawing was a release for him. A way to escape. Escape Terry and his shit, escape Ian and his shit, his brothers, his sister. All of it. He could draw what he wanted, how he wanted things to be, to look like. He could pretend.
After he landed in prison, he drew other things. The cars he could remember, what the beach looked like in Mexico, he even drew him and Ian sitting under one of those large umbrellas, sipping colorful drinks. But most of all, he drew Ian.
That redheaded, green-eyed monster that upended his life all those years ago. Ian, who kicked him out of his comfort zone more than once, earned his trust, then his friendship and he even managed to fall in love with him. Ian, who made him second guess himself and what he believed life was. Ian, who left him time and time again, and still, he loved him.
Mickey loved him enough to come out to his fag bashing father, he took that beating with a smil on his face. He loved him enough to stick around during Ian's wild, unmedicated days. He loved him enough to escape prison, asked him to run off into the sunset together, he even loved him when Ian said no.
But Mickey loved him the most when he gave up his freedom in Mexico, his life of cheap tequila, even cheaper smokes and no cops on his ass, not like in the states. He gave it all up for Ian.
Always for Ian. Love did shit like that, it made you think of someone other than yourself...only all the time. Now instead of thinking "oh, how would that affect me" it's, "oh, how would that affect us." It was maddening.
It was love. Messy, ugly, fluffy, fucked up love.
He drew Ian a lot. Like, an obsessive amount. He drew Ian like he wasn't stuck in the same cell with him for the next two plus years. He drew Ian in all sorts of ways, clothed, naked...even when it heated his cheeks to look at it, he drew full body, and certain areas, Ian's chest, his abs, the side profile of his face..the crooked side.
Ian didn't know, though. Mickey wouldn't be able to face him if he knew. Ian would never let him live it down and would ask a million questions as to why he chose to draw those certain areas. Not to mention that smirk Ian would have all the damn time...yeah, he couldn't risk it.
Mickey stuffed the sheets of paper, --normally drawn on the backs of Ian's weekly medial papers-- into his pillow or between the metal bunk and the thin mattress, some into the pages of books Ian already read. He hid them for those few moments every day he was alone, when Ian went for his meds. Then he just stared at them, trying not to let those butterflies in his stomach run right over him.
It was late. So late, that they'd already had their quiet, almost vanilla sex in his bed --simply because Ian refused to sleep in a mayo smudged bed-- then cuddled until the next bed check. Ian left him with a sore ass, a fluttery heart and half a dozen kisses to his neck before Ian moved back to his own bunk.
Now with only the light from the window in their bunk, Mickey held a sheet of paper on top of a hardback book to brace it, and drew Ian like he was still asleep next to him.
In that one, Ian was laying on messy sheets, pulled up to cover only half of his ass. The other cheek was bare, as was his lower back and the perfect arch of Ian's spine, those wide, freckled shoulders. His arms were tucked under the thin pillow, his head pushed face first into it so his hair hung around him like a halo.
Even though his bed was empty, he could see Ian there.
The drawing was done, for the most part. He added a first last minute touches, the freckles along Ian's arms, the dimples in his lower back, the god awful tit tattoo Mickey was ready to cut off of him.
With a satisfied sigh, Mickey sat back against the cool wall and stared at it. It wasn't as perfect as the real deal, but really, what was? He tapped the broken pencil on the edge of the book, making a lightly thumping noise.
Just as he was about to hide yet another picture, --he had the pages to the book open and everything-- the bed squeaked and suddenly Ian was leaning over the side, watching him. Green eyes moved from his to the paper and back again, that crooked jaw twitching into that smirk Mickey always expected.
"Just shut up." Mickey sighed, with absolutely no heat in his voice. He closed the book and let the page rest against his thigh. "You're supposed to be getting your eight hours of beauty sleep."
"I was trying, but someone kept sighing in that totally smitten way." Ian nodded at the pages. "Drawing me again?"
When you had overactive eyebrows, they piped up without his permission. Like now. High on his face, threatening to dance off his head. "What do you mean again?"
Green eyes rolled back into his head. "You're not as sneaky as you think, Mick. And your hiding places are for shit."
A book dropped from Ian's bunk onto his bed. The book that Ian already read, one that he said he wouldn't read again because the plot was off...or something gay like that. The book that he had over five pictures tucked away into. A book that had been under his pillow last night.
Mickey leaned forward enough to snatch the book and shoved it under his pillow. "Keep your overly large hands to yourself, gigantor. It was on my side for a reason."
"That's whatcha get for hiding it under your pillow like a twelve year old girl." Ian said and hopped off his bunk, then sat on the edge of Mickey's. "So, by your defensiveness, I assume you don't wanna talk about it."
Mickey felt his face heat up at being caught. He focused far too long on folding his newest piece into a little square, then held it between two fingers and flicked it across the room. And like the twelve year old Ian accused him of being, he crossed his arms across his chest.
"Ding, don't, ding...we have a winner." Mickey said sarcastically but Ian's mouth twitched into a smile all the same. "No, I don't wanna talk about it."
"Well, too bad. I'm gonna ask, which you already knew." Ian got up and grabbed the folded paper. He unfolded it and placed it on the bed. "So, what gives, hmm?"
"Nothing, Gallagher. Just bored." Mickey tucked the pencil behind his ear and wouldn't meet his eyes. "Don't make it a big deal."
He was genuinely embarrassed. Not because of the content, --okay maybe because of the content. He managed to sculpt Ian's ass just as it looked in real life-- but because he took his time and drew Ian when Ian was already there. He drew Ian because some moments, like the one he just drew, wouldn't happen like that again. Not exactly the same and he wanted to remember it. Over and over.
It was one of those mushy, feeling-feelings thing Ian was so good at. Ya know, the heart eyes, sighing wistfully while thinking about the other, doing something just because you know he'd like it, or appreciate it. Ian shit. Except this time, it wasn't Ian. It was him and he wanted to draw that after sex moment and he did. Just like he saved Ian the last of the tooth paste when they were low, or let Ian read the new books he got from their shitty prison library, or gave Ian his Jell-O...even when he would kill someone, or multiple someone's for Jell-O.
This time Ian was calling him out on it and he had no intention of defending his actions. It would push him out of his comfort zone, like most things did with Ian, then he'd get snappy and Ian would push and he would blow up and start a fight when he really didn't want one.
"Mick…" Ian started but stopped when Mickey shook his head.
With a look, Mickey let him know he really didn't want to get into it. Not then, not later and if he knew better, Ian would let it go. He did after a few moments of nothing but eye contact.
"Alright." Ian said with a defeated sigh. "Wanna lay with me, if you're done?"
Mickey tossed the book to the ground and scooted over. Ian followed, molding himself to his back, those gangly arms around him, one thigh between his, tangling them in the way that Mickey loved. But nothing was better than when Ian tucked his face into his neck, took that giant deep breath and laid a series of soft kisses along his skin.
There was no "I love yous" because of course they loved each other. It wasn't a RomCom, where they expressed their love and devotion every other scene. No, this was real life where their actions spoke far louder than words.
Unlike the first time Ian caught him drawing, he was well aware Ian was watching. In fact, he was sitting across his bed, propped up against the opposite wall, posing for it.
It hadn't started off that way. It started off with Mickey watching Ian read as they sat on the same bed, his, on opposite sides. They wanted to be close but not attached at the hip. It was compromise at its best.
It changed when Ian's face went from fascinated, to sad. His smile dropped and his eyes softened in that beautiful way. And Mickey couldn't resist. He grabbed the first piece of paper he saw, which was another one of Ian's medical notes, and grabbed the pencil behind his ear and began to draw.
It was just his face this time. He captured the strength in his jaw as it clenched, doing its best to keep the emotions on. Then his sad eyes, glistening under the shitty light from above. He even waited for that one tear to fall before he added that as well.
Then Ian finally caught on, wiped his tears away and tossed his book. He turned and faced him and held his hands out wide, asking what he was waiting for.
With a new sheet of paper and a scowl to rival Terry's, Mickey drew him. Not just his face, but all of him. From the wild curls on the sides of his head, to the brown flecks in his green eyes, the stubble on his jaw. Then lower. Mickey focused on his collar bones, the dip in his throat and how muscular his chest had gotten since they've been locked up.
The whole time, Mickey tried to school his face into something that resembled disinterest. He didn't react to how amazing he thought Ian looked, he refused to wet his lips when they were dry, he didn't let his gaze linger for any longer than it took to etch that part of his body into his memory, then moved on.
His body, however, betrayed him. His breath hitched each time Ian flexed, --probably on purpose-- or when Ian smirked and his gut twisted on him, forcing all his body heat down, pooling in his groin, making him hard.
It wasn't long until Ian started to talk. First about nothing in particular. Nothing serious, just random facts or moments from his day down at the infirmary. That's when Mickey relaxed and got his focus back...for about five minutes. Then came the other things...the things he didn't like to talk about.
"You ever draw me totally naked?" Ian asked, tilting his head as if he could see the drawing before it was finished. "Not just an ass cheek like last time, but fully naked."
Before he answered, he clenched his teeth. Mickey glanced up, not to study another part of his face to draw, but to see that quizzical look. Like he was asking because he was interested, not because he was being cheeky.
"Just asking." Ian said, then went quiet for a moment. "Have you ever wanted to?"
With a sigh, Mickey lowered his pencil. If he didn't stop for a moment, Ian would keep asking. "Why are you asking me?"
"Because you sometimes get this look when you draw me…" Ian motioned to Mickey's body in general. "I'm not sure what look it is, exactly. Only that I've seen it before."
Mickey bit the inside of his cheek and cursed himself for asking. "I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about...now, you mind?" He motioned to the pencil and Ian rolled his eyes.
"Fine, draw. But I don't need to move to talk." Ian snapped back. "As I was saying... I've seen that look when you're thinking about sex."
It was instinct to deny it, to scowl and tell him to shut it but that would only confirm what Ian suspected. Yeah, he was right. Ian usually was. But Mickey wasn't about to tell him that, or show him. So, he didn't blink and acted like he was drawing...even when he'd been done since Ian's first question.
Ian continued with a knowing smile. "I'm thinking that look is excitement, but not the obvious kind where you are outwardly excited. Like, inside."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Mickey tucked the pencil behind his ear again and tossed Ian the picture. "My face is the same as it always is when I draw, or don't draw."
Trying to get out of the conversation, he shut his eyes and snuggled down into his flat pillow. Hoping Ian would get annoyed with his lack of conversation and that would be the end of it.
"I was trying not to make a badly used Titanic reference," Ian snorted at himself, then he got a death glare from Mickey and he couldn't resist. "But the reference fits so perfectly that I'm gonna do it."
Mickey pointed at him. "Don't do it."
Ian cleared his throat, trying to make it seem more feminine, but failed. He put one hand to his chest, dramatically. "Draw me like one of your French girls."
"Jesus." Mickey kicked his legs out, trying to hit him but couldn't reach. "You and those damn chick flicks. It's really a problem."
By that point, Ian was on his side laughing, tears streaming down his eyes. He gave into it for a moment or two before he stopped, his laughs becoming less and less. "I know it was cheesy, but really. You're good, Mick. Really good."
"Shut up." Mickey didn't try to kick him and a traitorous smile appeared on his face long enough for Ian to see it. Then it was gone and he laid silent once again.
The bed shifted and Mickey felt Ian move over him, Ian's thighs on either side of his own, strong arms pulling himself up the bed. After a moment he could feel his breath on his face, the weight of his body, he could hear his heart.
"Back to what I said before. If you wanted to draw me naked, all you have to do is ask." Ian said, inches from his mouth. "I'd happily strip."
Mickey shoved at him. "Fuck off."
Ian chuckled, then used his knees to split Mickey's thighs and laid between them. "I found the ones you drew of me dancing."
Mickey's eyes opened, now wide and a little fearful. Ian wasn't supposed to find those ones, or all of them really. But least of all those.
"Next time find a better hiding spot than under your sheet."
This time when he tried to shove him, Ian grabbed both wrists and pinned them to the bed. Mickey struggled, finally opening his eyes to see that smirk firmly in place. He bucked his hips and Ian lowered his body and let all his weight rest against him.
Mickey happened to like that feeling and made the mistake of telling Ian he did. Now if Ian wanted to shut him up in a hurry, all he had to do was pin him down.
"Yeah, I'll get right on that. Maybe one of the guards can hold onto 'em for me, hmm? Or the warden." Mickey hit his lip when Ian swiveled his, expertly grinding into him. "Get off."
Ian tightened his grip on Mickey's wrists. "I'm trying to get off."
"Lame ass." Mickey snorted, but the gentle rock of Ian's hips wasn't helping him attempt to seem annoyed. "And stop going through my shit. Those are private for a reason."
When Ian let his hands free, Mickey didn't push him away. Not when Ian kissed down his jaw, then moved to tease his ear for a moment before he pushed his face into his neck. Something Ian always did, prison or no prison. Instead, he gripped Ian's hair with one hand while the other tugged on Ian's shirt.
"Don't ask me to make your bed next time." Ian said between kisses. He kept up the shift in his hips, groaning every other kiss. "Why you hiding 'em?"
"Cuz." Mickey mumbled weakly as a moan pushed from deep within his chest. He could feel Ian hard against his inner thigh, pressing closer with each thrust. "Don't want anyone to come in and see 'em."
"You said you hated when I danced." Ian said as he switched sides, now lathering the left side of his neck in wet kisses. "Why draw it?"
As he went to answer, Ian sucked behind his left ear, a sensitive spot he'd had for years since Ian discovered it one night during sex. Since then he loved to get him riled up, teasing it. Sucking on it, biting it. Anything he could to get him desperate.
"Fuck." Mickey whispered and lifted one leg to wrap loosely around Ian's hips. "And I never said I hate it. Just didn't like you rubbin against old fucks every night."
Ian chuckled. He pulled Mickey's shirt down to kiss at his chest. "You hated it."
"Yeah, I hated it." Mickey admitted quickly, just as Ian was about to lick across his nipple. "Didn't mind those shorts though."
Green eyes looked up, and gave one slow lick across his nipple. "From that drawing, I can tell you liked 'em." He smiled when Mickey blushed. "And I have 'em at home still."
His hips lifted on their own, grinding against Ian's body, against his hardness, wanting more. "Doubt your big ass could fit in them still."
Prison Ian was easily twice as big as normal Ian. They had to up his clothing sizes within a month of them being inside. Before the clothing exchange, Mickey ended up staring at the way one of those wide beaters strained against Ian's chest. So tightly that if he inhaled too deeply it would split in two.
He didn't mind that so much.
"Bet you'd love to find out." Ian said as he moved lower, now by Mickey's stomach. He had Mickey's shirt pushed up to his chin, giving him more room. "Maybe when we get outta here."
Tightening his grip, he pushed Ian down until he gasped, then soothed the pain by stroking the stands. "Maybe. Can't do shit about it now."
"We can do other stuff." Ian licked down to Mickey's hips, panting against his skin. "Hmm?"
"Yeah, now shut up and get to it."
Ian smacked the side of his thigh, making Mickey gasp. "Don't rush me."
Mickey smiled. "I'm not. Just directing you."
With a rough tug, Ian had Mickey's pants pulled down enough to get to him. "Trust me, I know my way around."
As Ian gripped both thighs, looping his arms around them, then settled low one the bed, Mickey split his legs, offering more room. "Show me."
Ian licked up one side of his cock, his eyes trained up. "Make sure you watch, that way you can draw it for me later."
Mickey licked his hips, impossibly turned on by that one statement and let Ian do his thing. Watching every single movement. "Don't worry, I'll remember."