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Mickey was mindlessly flipping through the lame-ass channels on his television when the buzzer at the front of his apartment rang. He checked his watch. It was seven, and Ian had said he would probably come over tonight after work, so Mickey was pretty sure it was Ian at the door. Which was totally not why he stopped in the bathroom real quick, to smooth down his hair and make sure his old t-shirt wasn’t stained.
“Coming!” he yelled at the front door, weaving his way through his apartment. He winced when he noticed how messy the kitchen was, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Ian was just gonna have to deal.
“Fuckin’ slowpoke,” Ian said, when Mickey opened the door, like that was a perfectly normal and kind way to greet the person you were dating. “You jerking off or something?”
“You fucking wish,” Mickey laughed, ushering Ian inside. “But no, not everyone thinks about their dicks all the time. Unlike you.”
“Honestly,” Ian said, completely straight-faced, “I’m usually thinking about yours.”
“Fuck,” Mickey choked out, sputtering a little bit, because Ian was the king of smooth and Mickey didn’t even live in his country. Hell, he didn’t even live on the same continent. Mickey couldn’t even look at Ian’s face. He could feel Ian’s smirk on the back of his neck, though, and it was driving him crazy.
He composed himself and led Ian into the kitchen, pulling open his refrigerator and letting the cool air wash over his face. Ian made his chest tight and his breath come faster, and all he was fucking doing was smiling at Mickey, and it was so goddamn stupid, but Mickey just supposed that was life. You fall in love with your partner and weird shit happens and his eyes crinkle at the corners and you’re never gonna stop thinking about him.
“You want a beer?” Mickey asked, looking over his shoulder at Ian, who was leaning against the kitchen counter and drumming his long fingers against the granite countertop. “Or do you wanna keep talking ‘bout my dick?”
Ian laughed. “I’ll take a beer, thanks.” Mickey grabbed two out of the fridge and popped them open with the fancy bottle-opener Karen had bought him for his birthday a couple years ago (He’d been kinda surprised, actually, that she had gotten him anything at all, because their conversations mostly consisted of half-serious rants about how annoying Ian was when he got excited about something nerdy, and then he’d bought her a Blue Öyster Cult t-shirt for her birthday, after she mentioned liking them, and they’d hit it off ever since. Mickey had never really been any good at friendships, but he figured he and Karen were some weird sort of friends, at this point). He slid one of the beers across the granite towards Ian, who stopped it with his fingers, and then moved quickly, lightning fast, crowding Mickey against the counter. Their noses brushed.
“I forgot to do this,” he breathed against Mickey’s mouth. And then he kissed Mickey, and Mickey kissed him back, and the condensation slid down the glass bottles of beer and the fridge beeped behind them, telling them it had been open for too long, but Mickey didn’t care, because Ian’s lips were warm and soft and Mickey was totally lost in them.
The fridge beeped again, and Ian started laughing, trailing his mouth down Mickey’s face, fucking laughing against Mickey’s skin, and Christ, his heart was gonna beat out of his chest if Ian didn’t stop that immediately.
Mickey brought his hands up and squeezed Ian’s shoulders, affectionately, and broke away to go deal with the refrigerator. He could hear Ian grab his beer and slip away into the other room, so Mickey pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the fridge and took a deep breath, steadying himself. Ian Gallagher was gonna be the death of him.
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Ian was sprawled out on Mickey’s couch, like he belonged there (holy fuck, Mickey was pretty sure he did), when Mickey emerged from the kitchen. He was racing through the TV guide, barely giving each listing a second glance.
Mickey made an annoyed noise. “There’s no way you’re actually reading those.”
“I’m a fast reader,” Ian said. “Deal with it.”
After skimming through every channel at an unreadable place, Ian finally made up his mind and clicked on something.
“The Office?” Mickey asked, skeptically.
“Sit down, shut up, and don’t pretend like you’ve never seen this episode before. I’m not stupid.” Ian looked over at Mickey, a knowing smile on his face. “Plus, you have the biggest crush on Jim.”
“Do not!” he squawked, indignantly (he did). “Okay, maybe a little one. Guess I have a thing for total nerds.” Mickey sank into the couch on the other side, putting his beer down on the beat-up coffee table in front of them. Ian thwacked him on the shoulder, smiling victoriously, like just because he guessed that Mickey had a tiny crush on Jim Halpert, he suddenly knew everything about Mickey (and okay, Mickey kinda wanted him to).
They settled in, laughing at all the right parts, sipping their beers slowly in peaceful silence. Mickey pretended not to glance over at Ian every few minutes, and he was pretty sure Ian was doing the same thing. It was a weird back and forth, neither of them doing anything about it, the tension growing. They finished their beers around the same time and Mickey went to grab more, and this time, when he came back, he magically summoned some fucking courage and sat down next to Ian on the couch, the sides of their bodies warm against each other.
Ian plucked his beer from Mickey’s hands, murmuring his thanks, and took a long sip. Mickey watched, enraptured by the muscles working in Ian’s throat, before dragging his gaze back to the television. Mickey needed to get his fucking mind out of the gutter, but he was warm and loose and the beer was working its way through his system and Ian was right there, the bright glare from the television lighting up his face.
Mickey felt bold, fueled by the alcohol and Ian’s dumb face, so he knocked his head gently into Ian’s shoulder, gravitating towards his warmth like the earth around the sun, and Ian lifted an arm and wrapped it around Mickey’s shoulders, pulling him even closer. They didn’t look at each other. Mickey knew he’d probably lose his courage if he did. It was stupid, really, because Mickey never really had a problem going after what he wanted, never really had a shortage of courage, he investigated murders for christ sake, but Ian was different. He was different and important and Mickey didn’t want to fuck it up.
Mickey’s life kinda sucked sometimes, (not in the way it did when he was younger and had to deal with his asshole of a father, but that was a different story, one that had ended and would never be revisited) because he didn’t have much of his own, didn’t have something to hold onto. He didn’t have a family like Ian’s, all he had was his job, and a faraway sister, and a kid and ex-wife (on occasion). When Mickey thought about it, really thought about it, he knew that Ian was one of the only things in his life that made it not suck, that Ian made him forget about his worries and problems, and that he needed to hold onto him. Not because Ian would magically fix everything, but because he inspired Mickey to fix things himself, to appreciate the world and his job and just fucking sitting on his couch on a Friday night, watching shitty television and drinking cold beer.
“This is nice,” Mickey mumbled, against Ian’s shoulder, because he couldn’t think of anything more profound to say. His thoughts and his mouth never really lined up.
“Yeah,” Ian agreed, looking down at the top of Mickey’s head. Mickey felt hands wrap around his jaw and pull his face upward, and now he was looking into Ian’s eyes, glowing in the brilliant light of the television. Ian kissed him for the second time that night, sweetly, like Mickey was something fragile, something fucking precious. It was overwhelming, because no one really touched Mickey like that, not like Ian did. Mickey brushed his own hands over Ian’s face, thumbing softly at his bottom lip, except then Ian took that finger into his mouth and all the air left the room.
Mickey might’ve groaned, just a little, but he slipped his finger out of Ian’s mouth and replaced it with his lips, the kisses harder now, hot presses of tongue against each others’ mouths. Ian’s hands started to roam, trailing down the back of Mickey’s neck until he reached the hem of Mickey’s t-shirt, which he yanked off in a sudden, swift motion that forced them apart for a moment. Mickey caught a glimpse of Ian’s eyes, and that was a mistake, because they were wide and dark and hungry, and Mickey shivered under his gaze.
“Mhmm,” Ian sighed, when Mickey went for his shirt, scrambling to unbutton it and get it open and fucking off Ian’s shoulders, because Mickey was already half-naked and Ian really needed to be too. It took off from there, their movements more frantic, hurried, trying to get as much skin on skin as possible.
“Ian,” Mickey breathed against his neck, fiddling with Ian’s belt (so fucking complicated, why was it so complicated), and Ian was muttering nonsense noises back, his hips starting to buck upwards. Somehow, they both ended up in their boxers, and Ian (the little shit) was still taking up most of the couch, so Mickey pushed him completely back against the cushions and climbed on top of him.
He started at Ian’s collarbone, sucking kisses into his skin as he worked his way down Ian’s body, loving his little gasps, and the thrusts of his hips, and the way Mickey could feel how hard he was through his boxers. This already blew everything they’d done before completely out of the water.
Mickey nosed at one of Ian’s hipbones, and then he just fucking went for it, pushed his fingers into the elastic waist of Ian’s boxers and pushed them down, taking Ian’s cock down and steadying his hips when they jolted at the contact. Mickey went at it, sucking and curling his mouth around Ian’s cock, feeling hands tangle in his hair and just reveling in the way Ian choked out his name (“Mickey, oh god, Mick - Mickey, fuck).
And then Ian tugged harder on his hair, the way Mickey liked it, warning him that he was close. Mickey kept bobbing and twisting, and then Ian’s orgasm hit him and he came down Mickey’s throat, and he lapped it up, steadying himself with hands on Ian’s hips, steadying Ian too, the way his hips bucked upwards before stilling, completely. Ian let his head drop backwards against the couch, and they were both gasping for breath, and Mickey was still hard in his boxers, and Ian seemed to remember this, suddenly, because he grasped Mickey’s sides and flipped them around.
Ian smiled down at him, which was really fucking hot, but didn’t even compare to when he slipped his hand inside Mickey’s boxers, his fingers moving expertly around Mickey’s cock. Mickey thrust upwards, automatically, trying to get more, more, more, and Ian kissed him, on his neck, on his throat, on his jaw. He tried words, he really did, but all he could get out was a few gasps before he came (he never even had a chance), spilling out onto Ian’s fingers, biting his lip hard. It was just a fuckin’ handjob, but Mickey was seeing stars and all that shit.
“Fuck,” he managed, once his breathing was back under control, and Ian laughed in response, collapsing on top of him.
“Yeah,” Ian echoed, in the same worn-out voice, and he began to trace patterns on Mickey’s chest, stroking his fingers over Mickey’s skin, and he almost wanted to cry, right there, because Ian was so gentle, and good, and he touched Mickey like he mattered. “Fuck.”
They lay there for a little while longer, just breathing. The TV was still playing in the background, stuck on some fucking informercial or something, and Mickey ignored it in favor of the gentle rumble of Ian’s chest against his.
“We should probably clean up,” Mickey said, against Ian’s hair, and he nodded in agreement, Ian’s silky red strands tickling Mickey’s chin. They untangled themselves, slowly, staying close together as they loped lazily towards the direction of Mickey’s bathroom, smiling softly the whole way there.