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Sweet Lips On My Lips

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See, the thing about the kiss is, he had planned it. 

Despite the seeming impulsiveness, and the fact that admitting it makes him sound like a pussy, he had planned on it. On kissing Ian. 

He hadn’t known exactly when he was going to do it, but he’d known it would be sometime in the following days after Ian’s fucking comment with that goddamn fucking smirk. 

He isn’t afraid to kiss me.

Mickey’d known it was a dare immediately. It had been obvious, the challenge in Ian’s eyes, in the twist of his mouth. 

It hadn’t stopped him from feeling it, though. The jealousy, the little swarm of something that was decidedly not butterflies in his stomach. 

It had gotten him thinking. He’d spent the whole day thinking, in fact, and much of the following night, too. 

His thoughts as he’d lain in bed that night, staring at his ceiling, had mostly been made up of shit like you’re a fucking pussy, please for the love of God just grow a pair and Jesus fucking Christ, Ian is an annoying motherfucker. 

In a way it’d been an ultimatum, hadn’t it. He kisses me, you don’t, so I’ll keep seeing him. Whatcha gonna do about it. 

And, well. 

What was he gonna do about it? What was there to do?


Mickey had never kissed anyone. He’d been kissed, just once. Angie Zago the first time he’d fucked her. She’d caught him by surprise before he’d been able to turn his head, her sticky lips pressing against his for about a second and a half before he’d shoved her off and said Yeah, no, I don’t do that shit.  

But he had never been the one to kiss someone. To make the choice to put his mouth on someone’s mouth. 

Sometimes, over the past two-ish years, in moments of stupid weakness, he had regretted not letting Ian kiss him that first time. Because after that, after “Kiss me and I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out,” the pressure had been on Mickey. 

Because as persistent as he was, Ian never crossed that boundary. He’d wanted to, it’d been painfully clear, but he’d always been such a goddamn Boy Scout that he had never kissed Mickey, never even tried, after that first rejection. 

So, the ball had been firmly shoved into Mickey’s court, taunting him until he eventually grew a pair. And there it lay, for months that turned into two whole years, until. 

He isn’t afraid to kiss me.

Until he’d lain in bed for most of the night, chewing on his bottom lip until it was raw, tasting the blood just under the surface. 

Until he’d decided to grow a fucking pair. 

Until he’d seen the opportunity, Ian sitting alone in the van, Mickey’s cousins already several feet ahead of him heading to that old fuck’s house. 

Like a sick kind of irony, Mickey had decided that was the perfect place to do it. 

A symbol, maybe. A message to the fucking geriatric viagroid. I kissed him too. In your fuckin’ driveway. Now ya got nothin’ over me. 

And Jesus Christ, had it been intense. 

Mickey’d felt it for a full minute before he’d done it, the electric thrum under his skin coupled with a nervous sweat. 

Then he’d just. Done it. He’d turned around after a few steps, jumped into the van, and pressed his lips to Ian’s smoky, soft ones, before retreating even faster and throwing Ian a raised middle finger just to alleviate his own vulnerability. 

He’d done it. He’d kissed Ian. Kissed a fucking boy. 

He hadn’t stuck around long enough to see Ian’s reaction, but his own had been a violent kind of rush through his entire body, like the most embarrassing type of arousal from the simplest, briefest press of lips on lips. 

Fucking mortifying. 

So yeah, he’d planned it. 

And he doesn’t regret it. 


What he hadn’t planned, though, is the aftermath. 

Because of course he should’ve known. He should’ve known that Ian would take that kiss and fucking run with it and want to do it more.

Because, well, Mickey’d done it more as a statement than anything. Not as an invitation for Ian to try to eat his face at every fucking turn, like he clearly wants to do right now. 

It’s not that Mickey is against kissing Ian more. He’s not. He’d like to do it, he thinks. In theory.

It’s just—it’s embarrassing, but he’s nervous.  

Since he’s never done it before—Angie doesn’t count, he’s decided—he doesn’t exactly know what the fuck to do, what goes where, who grabs what. 

Ian, as is painfully clear, has done it before. He’s kissed Ned. Kash, too, probably. Maybe others, maybe not. But, either way, that’s still way more practice than Mickey has had. 


So, now, on the Milkovich couch after Mickey’d invited Ian to what is not a fucking sleepover, Mickey is trying hard not to be suspicious as he dodges Ian’s attempts at kissing him again. 

He really can’t deal with the whole wounded puppy act tonight, so he’s not flat-out rejecting him, just inconspicuously shifting further away whenever Ian seems to lean too close. Ian is picking up on it, though, based on the way his stupid face is furrowed like he’s confused, or maybe disappointed. 

After maybe the fourth time when Mickey just happens to take a sip of beer right as Ian is leaning over, Ian huffs and mutes Under Siege on the TV. 

Mickey plays dumb, because it’s not like he can admit to what he’s been doing. 

“The fuck, Gallagher?” he asks when the TV suddenly goes silent. He chances a look at Ian, taking a sip while he does. 

Ian’s got his brows up and his arms crossed like he’s a fucking kid. 

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, sounding equal parts frustrated and maybe kind of hurt. Mickey swallows and shrugs. 

“What’s goin’ on with what?” 

Ian sighs, loud and exasperated. “Mick.” 


“Why are you being so fuckin’ weird?” 

Mickey tries a laugh, but it comes out flat. “Weird how?” He fidgets a little, shifty. 

Ian rolls his eyes and falls further into the back cushions.

“Weird like you’re moving away from me every time I take a fucking breath. Weird like that.” 

When Mickey doesn’t answer, Ian sighs a little and when he speaks again his voice is softer, somehow. 

Gentle, maybe. 

“Y’know, we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Mickey swallows. Swallows again. 

Says, “We don’t have to do what?” because for some reason he’s still playing dumb. Maybe he genuinely is dumb. 

Ian laughs, just a puff of air and a slight smile. “You know. Kiss.” 

Mickey swallows again, and feels a jolt in his stomach, just at Ian saying kiss out loud. Jesus Christ, he’s a pussy. 

He doesn’t say anything back, because what the fuck would he even say to that? He takes his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Ian continues, leaning forward a little. “I mean like. I want to, but I’m cool if you don’t. I’ve managed without it for this long.” A strained laugh. Then, like he’s gathering courage, Ian breathes in and asks, brows furrowed, “Why’d you do it, then, though?”

Mickey feels like his mouth is made of sandpaper. What can he say? It’s not like he can admit he was...what? Jealous? No fuckin’ way.

He settles for, “I dunno.” 

Ian deflates, sinking back. “Yeah.” And he sounds so disappointed and sort of resigned, Mickey can’t take it. 

“It’s…” Mickey starts, not sure where he’s going with it. He picks at the label on his beer. His voice is quiet, so quiet. “It’s not that I don’t, uh. It’s not that I don’t want to, or whatever.” 

Ian sits back up immediately, and when Mickey chances a look at him he can see the hope in his eyes. 

“No?” Ian asks. “Then what is it?” 


Mickey contemplates. It’s not like Ian doesn’t know he’s been Mickey’s first in many ways. 

First time he gave a blowjob. First time he got fucked face-to-face. First real friend, maybe. 

But a first kiss is so…juvenile. So simple. It feels like maybe it shouldn’t be such a thing, and it embarrasses Mickey that it is.

Still. It’s Ian. It’s Ian.  

“I mean, I…” he starts again. “I guess I’ve never.” He can’t finish. 

But Ian knows what he means, because of course he does. 

His face goes from confused to shocked to soft. “Oh.” He doesn’t sound put off. Mickey’s back to not being able to look at him. He chugs his beer instead, and throws the empty bottle somewhere. “Really?” 

Mickey huffs a dry laugh. “Yeah, really.” He knows he sounds agitated. 

Ian’s face twists a little. “I mean, I didn’t mean it like that, just.” 

“Just what?” 

“Just. I mean. I was your first kiss?” 

“Fuck off, man.” 

“I was.” Ian’s smiling now, that annoying teasing thing he loves to do. 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Ian just grins more. Then he sobers, and his mouth works for a while before he says, “I don’t think it’s weird or anything.” Mickey huffs in disbelief. “No, really, I don’t.” Ian looks down for a second, his cheeks maybe pinking a little. “I mean, I think it’s cool. Like, nice or whatever.” 

Mickey snorts, still on edge and more than a little embarrassed. “What, the fact that I ain’t kissed anyone?” 

Ian smiles. “No, the fact that you kissed me. Like, that I got to be the first or whatever.” And he’s blushing outright, and it’s easing Mickey’s nerves a little. 

“Yeah, don’t get a big fuckin’ head.” 

“Too late for that,” Ian grins. 

Then it’s comfortable again, almost. They sit silently for a while, can’t be more than a few minutes. The movie is still playing, still muted. 

Then Ian reaches for the remote and pauses the TV, and turns to face Mickey completely. 

Mickey gets that nervous jolt again, and raises his brows in question. He’s biting his lip, and he can feel a flush working its way up his face and neck. 

“Uh,” Ian starts, unsure, before suddenly seeming to grab confidence out of thin air and continuing, “I think we should kiss. Like, now.” And then he nods to himself like a dork, like he’s affirming his own statement. 

Mickey gnaws on his lip some more and breathes out. He knits his brows, pinched. “Nah, man, I mean. I don’t even…”

“You don’t what?” 

Jesus. His face is getting warmer by the second, he knows Ian can see it. “I don’t—like, I’m not like good at it or whatever.”

Ian shifts a little closer, his right knee touching Mickey’s left. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, the way they’re bunched in his lap. 

“I don’t care,” he says in a tone like he thinks it’s ridiculous. “Just, like, just do what I do. Go with it.” 

Mickey’s heart is pounding, shaking his ribcage. 

But, he thinks, this is maybe the best time to do this. They’re alone, they’re inside. And he already did it once. 

He bites the inside of his cheek for a bit, releases it, and shuffles just a little closer to Ian. 

Then he pauses. “If you laugh at me or some shit, I’ll shoot you in your fuckin’ face.” 

“I won’t laugh at you,” Ian sounds so serious, along with eagerness not-so-carefully masked underneath, that Mickey doesn’t argue any further. 

Mickey bites his lip again. He thinks he’s ready, now, but he has no fucking idea how to intiate this shit. So he just sits there with baited breath, gnawing his bottom lip. 

“Uh,” he says. 

Ian breathes out, short, like a laugh but not really. “Yeah.” 

And then he raises one hand tentatively to Mickey’s shoulder, which feels so awkward Mickey almost laughs but he can’t because he’s about to be kissed. By a boy. By Ian. 

Ian wets his lips so Mickey releases his own from his teeth and does the same. Then Ian seems to just go for it and pulls Mickey close, close enough that their noses might brush if he leaned in even a fraction of an inch. 

Ian keeps him there for a second, giving him time to pull back, probably.

There’s no way he’s gonna pull back now, though. 

So he waits, a second, two, until Ian gently pulls him in and leans forward at the same time, pressing their mouths together for the second time ever. 

Mickey’s still holding his breath and he can feel it in his throat. 

Ian’s lips feel like lips. That’s the main takeaway from his current sensations. In the van, he hadn’t had time to really feel it, and now he does and it’s weird.  

Soft, fucking soft.  

It’s good, though. He feels it in his chest, in the bottom of his stomach. 

They hold the kiss for a few seconds, neither moving, until Ian pulls back with a sound, a kiss sound that makes Mickey want to fucking die, and does it again. 

This time Ian tilts his head just the smallest bit, changing the angle. It instantly feels more real, more like a kiss.

Mickey decides to engage a bit more, this time, so he finally breathes out through his nose and relaxes his muscles, just letting himself be.  

Ian pulls back again, turning so he’s facing Mickey even more directly, and kisses him again, his mouth open a little. He takes Mickey’s bottom lip between his lips and closes them around it. 

His lips are wet on the inside and it makes Mickey breathe out embarrassingly hard.

Ian smiles into it, then, but he’s not laughing because he promised and Mickey trusts him to keep that promise. 

They trade a few more of the same kind of kisses, Ian’s hand making it to the back of Mickey’s neck, his thumb against Mickey’s cheek. 

After a few minutes Mickey realizes his own hands are still sitting dumbly in his lap so he wakes them up and grabs onto Ian’s shoulder with one and uses the other to pull Ian in closer by his cheek. 

Fuck, Ian’s cheek. It’s so fucking warm and the skin there is so soft, but slightly prickly from where he’s probably shaved a few days ago. 

It feels like a boy’s cheek and somehow that is the thing Mickey finds the most gay about this whole debacle. 

Ian moves willingly and starts to put a little more force into the kisses, gently pressing Mickey back so he needs to lie down, his head on a cushion against the armrest. 

Ian follows and then he’s lying on top of Mickey, kissing him and kissing him. 

It’s insane. It’s fucking insane. 

Mickey is getting ridiculously into it, so fucking turned on just from kissing.  

Then Ian slows for a second, sucks on Mickey’s lip— Jesus—, and then he’s touching his tongue to it, gently, and Mickey makes a mortifying uh sound that makes Ian do it again, and then his tongue is in Mickey’s mouth and Mickey feels like he’s actually, genuinely going to die. 

They push their tongues together a little clumsily a few times, before finding a rhythm and it’s suddenly so, so good.  

It hits him, then, that he’s fucking French kissing on his living room couch. With a boy. Like something out of a cheesy teen movie. Jesus Christ, the things Ian Gallagher has turned him into. 

After a few moments of licking at each other’s mouths—fuck—, Ian pulls away and, tentatively like he’s testing the waters, he starts to kiss down Mickey’s jaw, to his neck. 

Fuck. Fuck.

They’ve never really done this before. Ian’s stolen sneaky kisses, sometimes, to the back of his neck, or his thighs, when Mickey’s been too lost in a haze of sex to think to protest. 

But they’ve never done this. Kissing necks just to do it. 

Ian starts off just kissing him, like he did to his lips, little sucks with just his lips, but then after a few chaste kisses he turns them open-mouthed, getting his tongue into it too. 

It’s so, so fucking good. 

It’s a new feeling, but it’s fucking incredible. 

Mickey feels it in his toes, in his thighs, in his dick, definitely. 

He knows he’s breathing hard, hard, but there’s nothing he can do to control it. Ian’s just kissing his neck, making out with it, licking it, grazing his teeth on it in the best way.

Sucking on it, fuck. He’s sucking on it, and it sends a rush of everything directly down Mickey’s body. 

He manages to get enough clarity, mixed with panic, to mutter, “No, no, no marks. Not there,” before his brain goes offline again. 

Ian nods against his neck and turns his kisses softer. Then he starts to move down again, to Mickey’s collarbone. 

He kisses him there and tugs on Mickey’s shirt to make more room. His hand snakes down Mickey’s torso to the hem of his shirt, before he’s touching up Mickey’s bare stomach, his chest. 

They’ve never done that, either. They’ve touched each other’s bodies, obviously, but that has always been rushed, too. Now Ian is simply mapping Mickey’s skin, his warm, warm hand stroking up and down under his shirt. 

Then he pulls away from Mickey’s collar and he looks debauched. His lips are red. 

He pants out, “Can you…” and tugs on Mickey’s shirt. Mickey’s too dazed to reply so he just nods and pulls off his shirt, and then Ian’s pushing him back down and kissing his exposed chest. 

He’s licking, sucking, biting, and it’s all mixing together in a cocktail of Jesus, fuck, holy shit, and making Mickey so fucking hot. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hot.  

He suddenly gets what the fuss is about with foreplay. 

He’s breathing out of his mouth, panting like he’s dying. 

His hand is still holding Ian’s shoulder so he lets it be there, but he moves the other one to the top of Ian’s head, wanting to grab onto his hair but it’s too fucking short. Goddamn Army son-of-a-bitch. 

So he holds his neck instead, feeling the muscles move under his hands as Ian kisses, licks, sucks. 

Ian’s skin is so warm under his touch, like this is all getting to him, too. It makes Mickey feel good, to know he’s not alone in the feeling. 

As Ian is going to fucking town on his chest, without any kind of warning, he closes his mouth around a nipple, and Mickey suddenly feels a violent jolt of pleasure that he feels all the way in his goddamn teeth. It’s so, so different from anything he’s felt before. 

His hips have started moving, completely without his permission, just rocking slightly up and down, chasing something.  

He makes another embarrassing sound, all breath, and without any input from his brain he grabs tighter onto Ian’s neck, pushing him down, trying to increase the pressure, his mind so far gone he can’t even think to restrain the obvious neediness. 

He feels Ian chuckle against him, breath coming out of his nose as he keeps licking and sucking, making Mickey lose his fucking mind. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey breathes, pausing to swallow, his throat clicking with it. 

Ian stops, then, and Mickey almost whines. 


Ian floats over to Mickey, right above his face. He kisses him, harder and more insistent than before. 

His mouth is slick and Mickey can’t help but go a little wild, biting Ian’s bottom lip sharply, sucking on it immediately after. 

Then Ian pulls back, just enough to shift so that his mouth is by Mickey’s ear, his breath hot and damp against the shell. 

He swallows, Mickey hearing the sound clearly. 

Then, after huffing a little like he’s embarrassed or nervous, Ian whispers, “Don’t worry, I wasn’t laughin’ at you. I think it’s hot.” 

Mickey closes his eyes, swallows, breathes out. “What’s hot?” 

He feels Ian smile against his ear and maybe nuzzle against it a little, before nipping it quickly. 

“How into this you are,” he says simply, and Mickey feels his own face grow even hotter. 

“Who says I’m into it?” Mickey says, smiling a little. His hand has stayed on Ian’s neck this whole time, making the moment feel ridiculously intimate. 

Ian smirks, leans closer to tap his nose against Mickey’s. 

“Oh, you’re not?” he asks, smirking like a little shit. 

“Not even a little,” Mickey breathes, the teasing obvious in his voice. 

“Damn,” Ian says. Then his hand slides down Mickey’s chest, his stomach, until it reaches between his thighs. “Care to explain this, then?” he says, pressing down on Mickey’s crotch, where he’s been getting steadily hotter and firmer. 

Mickey breathes in sharply through his nose at the contact. He can’t come up with a comeback, so he just pulls Ian back down into a kiss, roughly pushing his tongue into Ian’s mouth and sliding it around. 

Ian breathes in, quick like he’s surprised at the sudden boldness but definitely into it, and kisses back immediately with matching enthusiasm. 

Then Ian starts up his hand—still resting on Mickey’s crotch—again, rubbing at Mickey over his pants. 

The kissing, combined with the pressure on him, is bringing Mickey ridiculously close to finishing early in his pants like a fifteen-year-old, so he pulls back abruptly, eyes closed and breathing hard. 

“What’s wrong?” Ian asks, concerned. 

Mickey takes a few breaths before saying—his voice sounding fucking destroyed even to his own ears—, “You gotta slow down or I’ll fuckin’ blow.” 

Ian chuckles then, sounding surprised and fucking delighted. “Oh?” he rubs a little harder on Mickey, drawing a sharp gasp through his nose from him. “That so?” 

“I’m fuckin’ serious, Gallagher,” Mickey groans, his hips pushing up into it of their own accord, “if you wanna actually fuck me, we gotta take a fuckin’ breather.” 

 Ian laughs softly, moving in to bite and kiss Mickey’s jaw, before drawing back again, an inch away from Mickey’s face. 

“I dunno,” he says conversationally, holding eye-contact while continuing his actions between Mickey’s legs. “Maybe I wanna finish you off like this.” 

Mickey’s breath stutters, his cheeks warming again. “Why the fuck would you want that? You’re not even gettin’ anything from this.” 

He’s not opposed to the idea, but he feels like it’s unfair. 

“Oh, trust me, I am,” Ian says, kissing him again. Then he unzips Mickey’s pants, touching him over his boxers. 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes without meaning to. He opens his eyes to see Ian staring at him, eyes dazed and fucking heated. “The fuck’re you lookin’ at,” he pants. 

Ian leans into him again, his left cheek against Mickey’s, so fucking warm, and a little damp from the warmth between them. “You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he whispers, kissing Mickey’s cheek quickly and speeding up the hand down his pants. 

The words make Mickey feel so fucking warm, a heat traveling up his spine and settling in his shoulders and cheeks. 

Ian seems intent on not touching Mickey directly, still over his boxers instead of skin-on-skin. Like he wants Mickey to come in his pants like an idiot. 

Mickey’s breathing harder and harder, his exhales stuttery in stop-starts, his hands twisting in Ian’s neck, in the back of his shirt. “Fuck,” he’s saying, whispering, over and over, unable to stop. 

“So fuckin’ hot,” Ian says again. “You look so fuckin’ good like this. Sound so hot. Fuck.” 

Mickey doesn’t know what it is about the things Ian is saying, but he feels fucking airy, like he’s floating away. 

All he can feel is Ian, and all he can hear are his own breaths and Ian’s words in his ear. 

Then it’s building, building, and he’s whispering “Fuck, close, so fuckin’ close,” and in a split-second his body is going tense and his breathing stops, then picks up again in short, loud waves of shuddery sighs, some of his voice seeping into every other one. 

Ian is whispering in his ear, telling him how good he sounds, how good he is, and there’s even the word beautiful mixed in there, but Mickey is too busy coming his brains out to argue about it. 

When he comes down he’s breathing hard, but slower than before. 

His entire body is tingling pleasantly, like tiny drops of water shaking on his skin. 

He feels good.  

So fucking good. 

He keeps his eyes closed, evening his breaths out. He’s vaguely aware of Ian zipping his pants back up, then moving his hand—clean, thanks to Mickey’s boxers—to smooth over Mickey’s hair, his cheek. 

It feels so good he doesn’t even consider telling him to stop, just lying there silently, letting the feeling wash over him in waves, floating over his body like warm water. 

He feels Ian press a kiss to his cheek, then another, and then feels Ian’s weight dropping down over him, lying on top of his body heavily, but not uncomfortably. 

Ian burrows his face into Mickey’s neck, his bare shoulder, and just relaxes there. 

An ambiguous amount of time passes like that, them lying there in a heap, really fucking warm but not wanting to move because it’s so, so good. 

Eventually, though, Ian lifts his head, seems to deliberate for a moment, and pecks Mickey on the mouth, a chaste thing. 

“You wanna head to your room?” he asks gently, brushing the backs of his fingers over Mickey’s neck, giving him goosebumps. 

Mickey looks at him and lifts the corner of his mouth lightly. “Jesus, gimme a fuckin’ minute before you try to get on me.”

Ian huffs, smacking him softly on the chest. “To sleep,” he says. “It’s like, the middle of the night already.”

“Oh,” Mickey says. 

Fuck. It is a sleepover, isn’t it. They’re gonna sleep together.  

“Um, sure. Yeah, let’s go,” he says and pushes Ian off him gently, feeling around the couch for his discarded shirt. 

Ian reaches down and pulls it out from under the couch and hands it to Mickey with a little smile. Mickey thinks he feels a blush on himself, which makes no fucking sense. 

They get up and go to his room, Mickey excusing himself into the bathroom and grabbing a pair of fresh boxers to change into. 

When he comes back, he hesitates over the bed for just a minute before flopping down and looking at Ian expectantly. 

Ian falls down beside him, also having taken his jeans off, as well as his t-shirt. They both turn to face each other. 

Then Mickey remembers something. 

“Fuck, you didn’t even finish earlier,” he says, surprised by how guilty he feels about it. 

Ian huffs a surprised laugh. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Nah, man,” Mickey argues. “You want me to like, blow you or somethin’?”

Ian shakes his head. Then he bites his lip quickly, and says, “Uh. I—uh, kinda did finish, though.” 

Mickey furrows his brow. “You—huh?” 

Ian gestures down at the boxers he’s wearing. “These are yours. Just fuckin’ stole ‘em and changed while you were in the bathroom.” 

“You came in your pants?” Mickey asks, incredulous. “I didn’t even touch you.” 

Ian flushes and shrugs, embarrassed. “Yeah, well.” 

Mickey looks at him for a long moment, letting the implications sink in. Ian got off just from making Mickey feel good, without even getting touched. 


Mickey swallows and darts forward quickly, kissing Ian on the mouth, hard. He keeps it up for maybe eight seconds before he pulls away, not going far. 

Ian looks stunned for a few moments, then he smiles, grins, lifting a hand and resting it on Mickey’s side. 

Then, voice lilted from his smile, Ian says, “Alright, now that we got my horniness out of the way, can we go to sleep? I’m fuckin’ tired.”

Mickey snorts, shoving him away. Then he pauses. 

He has no idea how the logistics of sleeping together are supposed to go, especially in his small twin bed. 

Ian seems to catch on, though, and pushes on Mickey’s shoulder gently until he lies down, then shoves at his ribs until he twists onto his other side with a huff. 

Mickey realizes what’s about to happen just as Ian sets a tentative hand on his side, slowly snaking it down like he’s about to wrap it around his middle. 

Mickey breathes in, slow and deep. 

Then, ultimately, he decides what the hell, and grabs Ian’s hand to pull his arm tight around him, settling his own body more comfortably, his cheeks burning hot. 

Ian complies without a word, shuffling even closer until they’re completely pressed together. He runs his fingers tenderly down and up Mickey’s arm a few times, giving him shivers, before lightly grabbing onto his wrist and holding on. 


Mickey tries to calm his heart, breathing in, out. 


Then he feels the soft press of lips against the warm nape of his neck, affectionate and brief, ticklish, and he lets himself relax. 

“Night,” Ian whispers, so fucking soft and fond, and melts completely down into the mattress, taking the rest of Mickey’s tension with him.