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still taste you, still faded, might stay

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Fuck, Mickey thinks, smoke trailing out of his cigarette as his hand leans out the bedroom window, looking down and wanting so desperately to connect the freckles on the sleeping ginger curled up in his lap. 

I love him.

 

*

 

Mickey thinks about him when he knows he shouldn’t. Under nights with high moons and shadows that trace the scars down his body given to him by his shit father. A blunt lighting up the room and a stash of gay porn hidden under the loose floorboard, Mickey cringes to himself when all his mind manages to think about is the scrawny little motherfucker that somehow wormed his way into Mickey’s heart. Shit.

He’s not even thinking about Ian’s dick, either. He’s thinking about the way the ginger doesn’t stop fucking talking until Mickey speaks and then Ian becomes completely absorbed, as if what Mickey is saying is more important than whatever the fuck is going on in Ian’s brain. Or the way that he manages to pull his laugh from the depths of his lungs, filling up the room so beautifully. Or the way that even his touch manages to send sparks up Mickey’s spine, even though his hands are always somehow so fucking cold.

He wants to trace patterns underneath Ian’s eyes, seeing how far his constellations will extend. He wants to touch Ian, feel the scruff of his hair just above his neck and not just when Ian is sucking his dick either. He wants to kiss Ian, to kiss him slowly and languidly, tasting every inch of his mouth until he passes out from exhaustion or suffocation whichever comes first.

And the thing is, Ian will comply. Mickey knows he will. The same way that when he texts Ian, he knows that Ian will respond in under five minutes. Whenever Mickey comes calling, the other boy will dutifully reply (it’s probably all the ROTC shit he does). And Mickey fucking loves it, loves that no matter how much he pushes Ian away, Ian will always come back. It would make any lesser man fall fucking head over heels in love with him too.

A part of him wonders if it will always be this way; this push and pull that exists between them like a tug-of-war except the winning marker isn’t a flag, but Mickey’s heart, which Mickey wants so desperately to come out unscathed. But Ian Gallagher, being the pushy little motherfucker that he is, is so desperate to win Mickey’s heart too. 

He taps the roach out the window, watching the ashes fall out of view. He looks up. There are no stars in the sky, living in Chicago and all, but he’s disappointed nonetheless. 

Maybe it’s the smell of summer or the fact that the sky seems overwhelmingly empty. Or maybe it’s just because he’s high as fuck, but he’s suddenly hit with an ache that urges him to hear Ian’s voice. 

Mickey ignores it at first because he isn’t a fucking teenage girl writing in a diary about how much he misses his fuckbuddy. But the clock ticks by and minutes pass and he’s tapping his fingers against his thigh and scanning his room for his phone. Not to call Ian mind you, just because he wants to know where his phone is. 

He finds it on top of his dresser, and before he can even process any sort of thought, his hands reach for it, opening it up and pressing Ian’s contact. 

It’s annoying really, how easily Mickey gives in to wanting Ian. 

It rings once, twice, the phone’s vibrations filling the room, amplifying Mickey’s own fear of Ian not picking up. After three rings, Mickey ends the phone call himself, fear bringing on clarity about what a shitty fucking idea that was. He reaches for the six-pack of beer on his bedside table that dwindled its way down to one, but before he can open it, his phone starts vibrating under the blanket where Mickey hid it in embarrassment. 

Not even waiting for the second ring, he frantically picks it up and places the phone on his ear, trying not to notice the way his heart races and his leg bounces.

“Mickey?” Ian’s voice is raspy and rough, exciting him way more than socially acceptable. Jesus, Ian’s said one word and Mickey’s already being set into overdrive. “Why’d you call?”

It then dawns on Mickey that he has no idea what the fuck he’s going to say. Mickey is absolutely not going to tell Ian that he wanted to hear his voice because Mickey is not a little bitch. “Dunno. I-uh, wanted to hear your voice, I guess.” Motherfucker.

He can hear the pillows and blankets rustling from the other end of the phone as Ian sits up from his bed. “You did?” His voice sounds genuinely shocked and Mickey would pay a lot of money to make out what was going on in his head right now.

“You don’t gotta make it a big deal.” He rolls his eyes, picking at a scrap of lint from his shirt, doing everything he can not to inflict in his voice how desperately he wants Ian right now.

“I’m not, I’m not.” There’s silence on both ends. Both of them don’t really know what to say, but neither of them want to hang up. “Do you, do you want me to come over?”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Now, asshole. You call me at 3 A.M. What else did you expect?” Ian’s laugh is loud and breathy and Mickey can’t help but pull at his lip.

“Sure, come over. Dad and brothers are out for the night; probably won’t come back until tomorrow afternoon.”

“What ‘bout Mandy?”

Mickey snorts. “Bitch sleeps like a fucking hog. There’s no way in hell she’s gonna wake up.” 

“Okay,” Mickey has gotten so accustomed to reading Ian’s expressions (for sex purposes only, he liked to tell himself) that he can hear his smile through the phone. “Can’t wait.” And Mickey knows that Ian actually means it.

For someone who prides himself on being a stone-cold bitch, he sure does turn into a pile of mush whenever it comes to the fucking Gallagher. The fucking Gallagher who kicks Mickey in his sleep and always steals his cigarettes and can barely do mental math and shouts during jump scares and always seems to know what to say to Mickey to get him to drop all his fucking defenses. It’s unfair really. With a body like Adonis and red hair that sends fire burning through Mickey every time he touches it, who the hell wouldn’t keep coming back for more?

It’s not just that Mickey loves Ian (what the hell even is love anyway? ), it’s that for someone so hell-bent on not being a faggot, he sure does love taking it in the ass. The fuck would his father say? Congrats on being queer, I brought you a present, surprise its my .22! Fucking Terry wouldn’t even say shit, just pistol-whip him six feet into the ground. One day, he’s gonna run away. And take Mandy with him. And Ian too, if you know, he’s down for that. He’s gonna run away from this shit town with shitty fathers and shitty water pressure and fuck every single fucking faggot he lays his eyes on.

“Mickey!” He hears a familiar voice break through his thoughts as Ian, standing on their makeshift step stool hidden behind the shrubbery, pokes through the window, his green eyes shining like stars.

Okay, maybe he’ll just fuck one faggot.

Pulling himself through the window, Ian manages to hoist himself on the ledge, before crashing on top of Mickey. Purposefully or not, Mickey doesn’t really care, not when Ian is so close to him.

“Fucking klutz,” Mickey sputters, Ian lying sideways on top of him with half of his legs still dangling out the window. “Do you ever watch where you’re going?”

Ian grins. “Sorry,” he pants, but doesn’t make any effort to move, still laying on top of Mickey. “This is nice.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Mickey says but with no real bite to it. Ian smirks and makes his way in, clinging to Mickey’s waist and using it as an anchor to pull himself through the window, ending up in this weird sideways position before twisting and pushing himself to hover right above Mickey’s face.

“Hey,” Ian breathes. He rests on his forearms, legs on top of Mickey’s own, trapping him in like predator and prey. It turns Mickey on more than it should. Ian’s breath smells like cigarettes and gummy bears. Mickey chalks it up to his addiction to nicotine for wanting to lick into Ian’s mouth. “How’s it going?”

Shaken out of his daze, Mickey scoffs. “How’s it going? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“I don’t see you trying, asshole.” Ian bites back, a smile playing on his lips. Still resting on his forearms, he starts to trail his fingers up and down Mickey’s sides, and Mickey completely forgets what the hell Ian just said as all the blood in his brain is rushing southward.

Doing what Mickey does best, he scowls and turns his head, muttering a broken “fuck off”.  

“Fuck off, or fuck me?” Ian leans down and whispers into his ear, prickling the hairs on Mickey’s skin. He’s suddenly painfully hard now, just wanting Ian to pick up the pace before he comes in his pants like a 14-year old boy. Ian hasn’t increased his touches, still just sliding his hands up and down Mickey’s sides, never dropping below the waist.

Mickey says it so low, he doubts Ian hears him. Ian's only tipped off by the movements of his mouth as Mickey breathes a small “fuck me”. Nonetheless though, he can feel the hitch in Ian’s breath as his small touches have become more and more desperate.

“Say it again.” Ian sighs, dipping lower into Mickey to brush their foreheads together, his dick still painfully above reach.

“I’m not fucking begging, so get on me before I change my fucking mind.” Mickey whispers into his mouth as Ian drops his hips and starts grinding against him in earnest. Ian licks his way down Mickey’s neck, pausing to suck into his collarbone without actually leaving any marks.

A low moan makes its way out of Mickey, before he bites down on his lips, wanting to keep the embarrassing porno noises to a small minimum.

“Stop,” Ian breathes, taking Mickey’s chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. “I want to hear you.”

“You’re such a fucking sap.” But Mickey obeys anyway, moaning extra loudly (on purpose, fuck you very much), as Ian moves his hips up and down and then side to side in a way that makes Mickey want to do something really fucking stupid like kiss him. He settles for letting Ian fuck him. “Clothes off.”

Ian takes off his shirt first, because he sweats like a fucking pig during sex, and undoes the buttons on his jeans at the same time that Mickey is undoing his own. They both strip off their pants and boxers, Mickey pulling off his shirt, before immediately going back to grinding. Mickey’s cock leaking from all the pressure; too much, but not enough in the way he wants it. “Get up, I’m gonna flip.”

“Jesus, cutting straight to the chase here, huh?” 

“You wanna sit here and keep looking pretty or do you wanna fuck me?”

Ian bats his eyelashes, holding his hands up in mocking flattery. “You think I’m pretty?” Rolling his eyes and not waiting for an answer, Mickey flips himself, landing on his forearms and knees, his ass on display, ready to be fucked and fucked soon.

Ian, momentarily distracted by Mickey’s ass, is shaken back to reality when Mickey reaches behind him and starts swatting at Ian to get a move on. Wordlessly, Ian reaches into the bedside drawer for condoms and lube, already knowing where everything is because of how often he actually fucks Mickey.

Dripping the lube on his fingers, he pushes a finger in, watching as Mickey’s asshole clenches around him, trying to adjust. Mickey squirms a little, but Ian makes it as enjoyable as possible, slapping his ass and biting his cheeks, drawing out a deep groan from within him.

He inserts another finger, slapping his ass, and then another finger, before curling into his asshole and hitting that sweet spot deep within him, a long, wanton groan shooting out of Mickey in surprise. It isn’t long before Mickey is fucking himself on Ian’s fingers. It’s good enough to please him for now but not good enough to satisfy the need within him that aches for Ian’s cock. “C’mon, Gallagher. This ain’t my first rodeo, get on with it.”

“Someone’s pretty needy, isn’t he.” Mickey can hear Ian’s smug smile even from behind him and Mickey wants nothing more than to fuck that smile away. 

“It’s never too late to use my fucking dildo, don't forget that, firecrotch.” 

“Can a dildo do this?” Ian asks innocently as he curls his fingers again on Mickey’s prostate, a moan erupting from Mickey’s mouth. He can feel Ian’s smile grow even wider. Smug asshole.

“Fuck, get your dick inside me.” Mickey pants, hiding his head into his hands as Ian dips his fingers in and out of Mickey’s hole.

“What’s the magic word?”

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Ian pulls out Mickey’s hole and he feels empty without Gallagher, clenching around nothing as he hears the condom wrapper being opened. Ian slides it down his dick, slicking himself up in the process and using copious amounts of lube. Mickey doesn’t have enough sense to bark at Gallagher to stop wasting so much good lube when Ian sinks his cock inside of him, his hands moving up and down Mickey’s sides. 

Ian waits for Mickey to adjust to the feeling of his dick inside of him, leaning down and pressing kisses down his neck and back in the meantime. “God, you feel so good Mick.”

Maybe it’s the nickname or maybe it’s Ian’s nine-inch dick inside of him, but something stirs in his stomach, and he’s hit with the realization that he’s never been this close with anyone. Mentally and physically. Ian Gallagher is the only person to fully sneak his way through Mickey’s walls, planting himself there like that’s the place he was destined to be all along. And instead of the overwhelming fear that Mickey assumed there would be, there’s only this weird fucking feeling to be near Ian, to protect him, and to love him.

Mickey doesn’t know if that’s what spurs him on as he turns his head and takes in Ian’s lips, kissing him fully for the first time. Ian’s shocked into submission, surprise overtaking anything else, before his instincts kick in and he’s reciprocating in full force, if not more. Ian kisses like there’s no tomorrow, like every single thought and act of passion has leaked its way into his lips and he’s desperate to convey every single thought of Mickey he’s ever had into this kiss, dirty and not dirty. At first it’s noses brushing and teeth clacking before they settle into a crazily hungry fucking rhythm. Mickey licks his way into Ian's mouth, satisfied with the taste of cigarettes and gummy bears. 

Mickey doesn't even notice that Ian started thrusting, so enraptured with the way Ian kisses him, so absorbing, like if he tries hard enough, he and Mickey can become one person. He’s distracted and doesn’t even feel the snap of Ian’s hips before it’s too late and everything comes rushing back and jesus fucking christ, his dick is throbbing.

He doesn’t even have to say anything because Ian already knows because Mickey thinks Ian knows everything except when to shut the fuck up. Ian’s tugging on Mickey’s cock and it only takes three pumps before he’s spilling over Ian’s hands and he’s groaning and panting into his sheets, Ian’s hand still on his cock, milking him for all he’s worth. Ian comes a few thrusts later, complete with litanies of jesus, fuck and mickey, like Mickey’s God or something, except Mickey isn’t God because there’s no way he could create a person as fucking amazing as fucking Ian Gallagher.

Ian collapses on top of him, covering him like a sticky blanket, before slowly pulling off, tying the condom, and disposing of it in an empty beer can because they’re slobs. 

Still sweaty, they lay there for several long moments, too tired to speak and not wanting to disrupt the silence around them. 

Or at least that’s what Mickey thought before feeling hands draped over his waist. He turns and finds the ginger fast asleep next to him, head moving to lay on his chest.

Despite what most of the neighborhood thinks, no, he is not a fucking monster, so when Ian wraps another leg around his own, he doesn’t move. Does he welcome it, absolutely fucking not, but maybe he doesn’t mind it when Ian’s face looks so peaceful and his smile lines are so prominent it’s hard not to love him.

Love him

Shit, Mickey almost forgot about that.

It’s not a matter of if Ian loves him back. He already knows the answer to that. He knows it in the way Ian reaches out to him, the way he looks desperate to touch him, to feel him, but different than the passionate and messy touches they’ve shared in the past. It’s the way Ian smiles at him, like Mickey’s the rain in the midst of a drought when really he’s a goddamn hurricane. Loving comes easy to Ian Gallagher. Loving Mickey is probably no different. 

But is Mickey worth Ian’s love? Ian’s undivided, fulfilling, fucking pure as fuck love that drives Mickey up the fucking wall in the best way possible? 

He looks down at the sleeping boy, the way constellations stretch under his eyes and across his face, lips still red from where Mickey kissed him. 

He traces the patterns, watching Ian twitch at the sudden contact before relaxing at Mickey’s touch. 

A smile makes his way on Ian’s face, tugging the corner of his lips up. Mickey likes to think Ian is dreaming of him. He knows Ian doesn’t mind his fingers, painting portraits on his cheek; he’s just content with being noticed.

They love each other in a way they shouldn’t, a way they’re not allowed; but no one needs to know but them.

The sky doesn’t seem so empty with Ian next to him. And who the fuck cares if they live in Chicago and there’s no fucking stars in the sky when the biggest one is draped over Mickey’s chest like a goddamn ginger teddy bear.

Mickey loves Ian, and he’s 90% sure that Ian loves him back. That’s good enough for now.