Work Text:
Ian has to resist the urge to groan when he wakes up to nothing more than a concrete mouth, light hitting him square in the eyes, not even to mention his head pounding like someone had dropped a brick onto it during the night. He rubs a rough hand over his face for a few seconds before declaring it's safe. Then he turns around and realises that the pressed clean, white satin sheets he's lying on are most definitely not his.
But it wasn't unusual to find him in places like this.
When he sits up, his heart even worse now and light, there's a unfamiliar blonde-haired man lying naked next to him. He tries to remember him – he really does – but the mixture of drugs and toxic alcohol made the edges all blurry. All he knew that this guys name started with a “D” or was it an, “E”? That and the fact the guy made the most ridiculous noises while you came. He was hot, though, and didn't seem like the person that would get emotionally attached. Which on Ian's benefit, was massive, because neither did he.
Standing up, he sways a little, pushing out a hand against the dresser in the room. Okay, forgive him, but he was still out of his head, still intoxicated and hopeless in walking a straight line, but he's still able to locate all of his clothing, including his black jacket that he had left dozen of times at guys places, and is able to slip them on quietly. Practice makes perfect after all.
Ian helps himself to some Advil and orange juice, silently pledging an apology towards the guy – that let's face it, was pretty mediocre in bed. But that's Ian's own opinion, he had dozen of guys to compare it to. Then he realises that he has no idea where he is, and when he walks out into the street he aimlessly looks around for some sort of sign. Anything. Then he sees it, like a clubs own flashing lights; Washington road – and Ian's lucky he has a ounce of sober inside of him to notice it's only a couple of blocks away from his apartment.
The first thing he does when he gets back is flop down face first into the mess of his couch. It was a Sunday, he's tired as shit, his head is resembling a band and his bed just seemed like the comfortable option – there was, however, complications to this love affair – he had to go to work later.
Lip barely even notices him, too occupied with the sprawled papers against their apartment counter, but it wasn't a lie that he didn't smell his brother coming in. “You reek of stale booze and cheap fucking fags.” Lip complains, earning a grunt from Ian. “How was the sex?” He asks casually, sipping at his coffee.
Ian pops his head up from the couch, “Nice.” He grins smugly. “Made awful fucking noises though.”
Lip snorts, shuffling a couple of papers. “Sounds like a keeper.”
“Fuck off.” Ian grumbles, using his helpless strength to flip him off. He sits up and turns the television set on, groaning at the shit selection of programmes. “Where's Karen, today?” Ian asks, pretending that he cared.
Lip shakes his head with a laugh, running his eyes over more equations. “Shit at home that she needed to sort out. Left with a rain check.”
“Bad luck, brother.” Ian laughs loudly from the couch, not able to dodge the flying pencil that hit him directly in the back of the skull. He turns and scowls towards his brother, before moaning at the twist in his stomach, the vile rising in his throat. Fuck.
“Shut the fuck up, man.” Lip shoots back, standing up from his chair, making sure it scraped across the floor and make the most horrendous sound. Ian obviously feels more sick now. Fucker. Lip walks over, smacking the back of Ian's head, “Take a fucking shower you're vile, and eat something dipshit, you ain't showing up to work like that, and you're definitely not puking on my couch.”
“I hate this couch,” Ian grumbles to himself, curling over into a hidden position. “I don't wanna, leave me alone.”
That's when Lip leaps onto the couch, making it feel even worse, like Ian was on a moving ship. Slapping his back, Lip chuckles, “Yeah, well, if you don't get paid you don't eat, and if you don't eat then you don't have strength to buy lube and condoms, which means no sex. Get the fuck up.”
Taking a couple of minutes to cry internally over his horrific fate, Ian drags himself up.
***
The dim lights of the coffee shop were fucking horrible. They made him want to hurl over the counter. It was boring as balls and the humid heat makes Ian want to kill himself.
The place had its regulars; Alcoholic Andy, Loopy Lisa, a couple of homeless men who yelled about the scandal of the government cuts, but even they had evacuated the place. So, effectively, there is no one there. Not even a piece of eye-candy that Ian could work himself up about.
Naturally, or just usually because this happened every Sunday, Ian and Svetlana sat and did nothing all day. Svetlana is leaning against the counter, grumbling towards her phone as her girlfriend repeatedly texts her throughout. Ian's perched on-top of the counter, whacking his legs absently against it, sipping at a cold cappuccino that he's believing is curing his hangover.
Svetlana raises her eyebrows at him. Ian waves a lazy hand around the area, “It's not like we have a massive line waiting for one fucking cappuccino.”
“Watch it orange boy.” 'Lana retorts, looking back down at her phone.
Until Ian spots two people walking into the shop, or more or less storming. “Fucking finally.” He hops off the counter, nudging Svetlana with his foot – not that she even noticed – and places down his cup of cold liquid.
It's two men, both brunettes. The taller one was obviously a fuck who inherited his money from his parents, all suited up and groomed back hair. Where as the other, smaller than average, slumped behind him, letters inking his skin that really surprised Ian – you don't get many people strolling through on a Sunday afternoon with Fuck-u-up written against their knuckles. The guy had black, gelled hair, a tight tank-top against his chest, the mildly, but pleasurably made his muscles stick out.
Ian can't help but wonder whether the taller guy was his lover, or boyfriend, or what the fuck ever, because if he's not, Ian wouldn't mind hitting that ass a couple of times. Metaphorically, of course, not literally hitting his ass like some abusive weirdo.
“Bet you ten bucks he's a bottom,” Ian leans over to Svetlana and whispers, head tilting towards the smaller man grunting his way through.
“For fucks sakes, Red,” Svetlana groans, face palming, looking both amused and exasperated simultaneously. “Give the man a chance to sit down.”
“I am.” Ian says innocently, wiggling his eyebrows before tapping his pad and walking over to the two.
When he gets there, he realises that yes he would definitely like to bend the smaller guy over. “What can I get you guys?” He asks, all grin and charisma radiating off him – eyes direct to the small, thuggish man.
“I ain't his fucking keeper, ask him,” The small brunette snapped, a little too harshly, causing Ian to snort out loud. Shit. After earning a glare, he turns to the taller man, smile dropping a little. Rolling his eyes in annoyance the groomed man speaks, “A latte for me and a black coffee for him,” He orders Ian, briskly.
What was the rush, seriously? It's not like Ian's fully booked with orders all day.
“Right,” Ian writes their order, calculating in his head. “That'll be eight dollars and fifty-six cents,” He gives them a weak smile, and the guy hands him a ten before slipping his arm around the smaller man's waist. Oh, they are together. Threesome then? The taller guy wasn't that bad?
Ian quickly gives back the chance, telling them it would be right up, and stalks his way over to the counter, flipping Svetlana off when he hears her sniggering from behind it.
“Shit luck he's taken by Mr-Big-Bucks over there,” Svetlana hums, cockily. There was no sympathy in her voice at all, but then again, she wasn't very sympathetic – one of the listed things that Ian loved about her. “Maybe he's a good tipper.”
Confidently, Ian rolls back his shoulders, “Don't be too sure 'Lana, I'm still in the game.”
“The irritating-fucked game, Oh, I know.” Svetlana teases, tilting her hips to the side away from Ian's playful poke.
And, to their surprise and Ian's glee, something goes down at the table the couple is sat down in. They both straighten up, Svetlana leaving her phone astray, watching as an argument of some sort break out like a programme on mid-day television.
The taller man looks a little guilty and the smaller brunette just looks anger, or maybe a little broken but trying to hide it behind his hard exterior. Ian tries to make out what they're saying, in the midst of pretending he's playing with the coffee machine, managing to catch a couple of lines.
“It's not working out, Mick-“
“Don't fucking call me that-“
“I know you are in this but I'm no-“
“What the fuck-“
“I can't do this-“
Svetlana makes a sort of oo sound, as her and Ian were playing off that they weren't watching intently at the break-up unfold. The taller man slams something to the table, and leaves, looking a little worn out and passes the two a weak smile.
The other guy – Mick. Michael. Mickey. Whatever his name might be – didn't seem to notice anyway, something Ian had gratitude for because it didn't seem appealing to be on the other side of the his flying, inked fists. The small, brunette slumped into his seat, hand running through his hair as he cursed repeatedly to himself.
Ian turns to Svetlana, “Do I smell like rebound material?”
“Really?” Svetlana sighs, already knowing what the redhead would do by the smug, grinning look against his face. Ian nods, waiting for an answer. “You smell like shit.”
Ian shrugs, “Take that as a yes then.”
Being a rebound wasn't a bad thing. It meant angry, hot, passionate sex that he never minded at all. It meant he wouldn't have to call them back, they wouldn't either because they fucked to get their ex out of their head. It was negotiable and it was perfect.
“Fucking slut.” Svetlana rolls her eyes, sighing heavily, but she's smiling amusedly. Ian's not offended, he usually takes that word as a compliment – because he knows he is.
“Wish me luck.” Ian says, grabbing the man's coffee order over, ignoring Svetlana's insult that was thrown his way. He doesn't bother grabbing the taller man's, he's left and now Ian could go in for the kill.
Ian sets it down onto the table and smiles, hoping that it would cause some sort of effect against the smaller man – but obviously, the guy doesn't even realise and until Ian clears his throat. His game was a little off today; he blames the hangover.
Mick or Mickey or even Michael, looks up, blue eyes a little glazed. “Uh, thanks man.” he mumbles awkwardly, sliding the coffee closer to himself, looking as if he might kill someone.
Ian tries anyway, no hurt in a risk is there? “You okay over here?” He gives a smile, good-naturedly.
“Sure. Fine.” The man bites.
A little annoyed, that he hasn't got the guys attention yet, Ian prods, “Man, you don't look fine.”
“Look, Carrot top, fuck off. I don't need your broke ass talking to me about something I clearly want to forget. So, would you just leave me the fuck alone.” Mick-Mickey-Michael snaps, looking even more murderous than three seconds back.
Ian's gasps a little in shock, he's heard worse but still, this guy was a utter asshole. Then he notices a shiny, gold ring sitting on the table and retreats from his game plan. The guy doesn't notice, and really Ian doesn't blame him at this point, and he walks back to behind the counter.
“Well, he does not seem to be in the mood for hot sex.” Ian comments, standing next to Svetlana, looking across the shop towards Mickey – he's guessing – and furrows his brow.
Svetlana snorts, “No fucking shit,” She smacks the back of Ian's head, before quickly glancing over to Mickey and then back to Ian. “He's just got dumped, big time, you dumbass.”
“Don't say dumbass, you sound weird.” Ian jokes, rubbing the back of his head. Fuck, Svetlana still could hit hard, he forgot about that. “But what does that matter, anyway?”
“Not everyone can be an American slut like you, Orange boy.”
Ian just shrugs, seeing nothing of it. The guy did look pretty bummed out if he was honest. Emphasis on the bummed part.
Mickey leaves without speaking, a couple of grunts here and there, leaving no gratified tips, which usually Ian would be pissed about, but not this time, for some reason it doesn't.
***
The next few days pass slowly, painfully, and without any sign of Mickey or crude tattoos. Ian's a little confused, he had no idea why the fuck he's missing the guy, but he does, and it's irritating. He didn't even know the guy, he wasn't sure whether he wanted to, and he never missed anyone. That's the whole point of his rule of not getting attached, attachments cause shit and Ian wasn't down for that anymore.
There's something different about this guy, though, something Ian couldn't put his finger on.
On the Friday, Ian takes the late shift with Lip. It's been a long time that he had even worked this long so he's already pumped himself up with near enough ten energy drinks and a ton of coffees.
Lip, the asshole he is, is never tired – somehow his work ethic had grown bigger than Ian's, since Ian had named himself the towns slut. Lip was never tired, not even when it was pitch black and Ian felt himself drooping off or in the case of fainting.
“How the fuck do you do this man?” Ian sighs, wiping down the counter for the third time. It wasn't even dirty, he just needed something to stop his eyes from jamming shut.
Lip laughs, shrugging, “I study all hours, go to night-school, I'm fucking used to it, man. Thought you'd be too, you never come home until like four in the morning after sticking it in one of those sleazy fucks from the club.”
“You're not helping,” Ian groans, desperately rubbing at his eyes. Trust Lip to remind him that he wasn't getting laid that night.
The curly-haired boy chuckles loudly, whipping Ian's back with the towel he had been holding. When he opens his mouth to say something the bell over the door makes a noise, someone shuffles in through. Someone familiar. Someone with inked splatted on his knuckles.
“Shit,” Ian mutters, straightening up for the first time in the shift. “Leave this to me.” He says, patting Lip's shoulder absentmindedly.
“Oh, so now you're awake.” Lip rolls off his tongue, arching his left brow. “Fucking slut.”
The brunette approaches the counter sloppily, staring up at the menu above their heads with a blank expression. Ian saunters up, flipping Lip off in the process, before he leans against his elbows on the counter giving off a taunting smirk. When Mickey doesn't move an inch, or look over to him, Ian stands up clicking his fingers before the mans face.
“The fuck you what?” Mickey grunts, looking over to Ian for the first time. Jeez.
“Why are you even here?” Ian asks, forgetting his words, a little confused why the guy was wanting coffee at this time of night. “It's after three.”
“I know the fucking time.” Mickey quickly snaps from his exhaustion and into annoyance, scowl forming. “Maybe I just wanted a coffee at three in the fucking morning, you ever think that?” He raises his eyebrows, angrily. Ian doesn't answer. “Now get me a large black coffee, asshole.”
Ian blinks, struck back again, trying to give off a apologetic smile. “Sure. That'll be three-fifty.”
Apparently Ian's awake enough to give the guy the right change, and assures him that it won't be long. Mickey just grunts, shaking his head with a curse before sitting himself down in an empty spot that was closer this time.
It wasn't rocket science, Lip was boring holes into the back of his head as he walked over to the coffee machine. Turning around, Ian isn't surprised that Lip's stood smirking, arms crossed and shaking his head ashamedly. “Why the hell are you flirting?”
“Fuck off, Lip, I'm not.” Ian tries to defend himself weakly, the smirk on his brothers face telling him almost instantly that he could lie. Ian drops the act, pulling Lip closer a little, “Okay, I am. But fuck it, he's just – I don't know, different.”
Ian clicks the machine, grabbing a cup for the coffee, and Lip obviously follows him. “Is that the guy 'Lana told me about? The guy who got dumped by his fucking fiancée?”
Ian could of guessed this would come up, “Yeah, and apparently he can murder people with his eyes. I know, I have fucking great tastes in guys.” He huffs out a breathe, pouring the back coffee into the cup.
“You might want to chose another dick for tonight, little brother,” Lip pats his back, “Just an honest suggestion.”
“Oh, you have room to talk, Lip,” Ian raises his eyebrows, “You jumped in with Karen as soon as she was dumped by that dick in Calculus.” He barges past him, glaring, before walking over to the table occupied by Mickey.
Setting down the cup, he smiles. “So, you're not doing so good today, huh?”
Mickey scoffs, clicking his teeth as he shoots Ian the most angriest glare to man. “Didn't want to talk about it last time, don't want to fucking talk to you about it now. Now fuck off and let me drink my coffee in fucking peace, Jesus.”
Ian raises his hands in defence, furrowing his brow. “Just trying to be nice, gosh. Let me know if you need anything else, yeah?” God this guy was hard to crack. He smiles falsely before walking back towards the counter, smile becoming genuine when he hears the guy curse out, annoying little fucker.
Despite the whole murderous glare and threatening attitude, Ian couldn't stop himself looking from his spot behind the counter. There was something about the cranky attitude that he enjoyed. He hadn't even noticed Lip laughing from behind him until he felt a forceful kick to his thigh. “What the fuck-”
Lip smirks, standing next to him. “Do you have a big gay crush on this guy?”
Ian snorts, “Fuck off, you know what I like. I don't do attachments.”
“Right,” Lip looks dubious, with a lack of belief. “It ain't about attachments, you're just a manwhore.” He snickers, laugh growing louder when he feels Ian literally gouge his insides out with his mind.
Lip clicks Ian's chin, playfully, with his knuckle. “Just be careful,little brother, we all remember what happened last time you-”
“Yeah, I fucking know.” Ian cuts him short, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He needs another coffee – or ten shots of vodka. “It would be great if you didn't bring that shit up again.”
Lip doesn't seem convinced, nor sympathetic to the fact he brought Ian's past up from the grave, and sits against the counter Ian's slumped against. Eventually, after a lot of grunting and stirring of his coffee, Mickey steps up and shoves his plastic cup into the trash. Lip's sauntered off the bathroom, most likely for phone sex with Karen, and Ian's relishing in the fact they are alone, for now.
Ian grins a little weakly, trying to push it through his exhaustion and worn out mind, and wishes Mickey a good night despite the scary outburst early. Mickey looks like he's about to leave, and he really wants too, but stops at the counter, looking both contemplative and curious.
He's just about to ask what Mickey's thinking, or what the hell was he doing, before the brunette openly asks, “What happened last time, then?”
“Wait-what?” Ian stutters in shock, blinking a few times to clear his head. “You heard all of that?”
Mickey huffs, “Doesn't matter. See you around, Firecrotch.” Nodding his head, contently, he knocks his knuckles against the counter, inked letters clear to read, and walks out of the shop not looking back.
Ian's not sure what the fuck just happened. And he's not sure whether that “see you around” was a threat to his life or a invitation to see him again.
***
It's Saturday night, and Ian's sinking further into the couch thinking about all the dick he wasn't getting at this point. He needed to get laid, badly. Especially now that the stupid, brunette fuck from the shop wouldn't rid of his mind. The cute, pale face that permanently held a grudge seemed tattooed to Ian's brain, not once letting him have a breather from it.
It was ridiculous, Ian did not get attached. That was the underlying rule of the whole fucking thing. That was the point. He has meaningless sex with numerous pretty-faced strangers, most from the club, because he enjoyed it. It was fun, it wasn't complicated, it was a release from his shitty-ass life and most of all it was a great distraction. Ian didn't get crushes, no fucking way, so what the hell was happening to him.
That's how he ended up sitting in the club at midnight, downing every shot in front of him until the sun rose. Maybe some good, raw, no complicated sex would knock the stupid fuck out of his head once and for all.
Ian catches the sight of a guy snug in the corner; he's got dark-black hair, pale complexion, something both perfect and disastrous in the plan of getting rid of Mickey in his head. He walks over, sitting himself down beside him. His confidence is dropped slightly when he realises the guy has green eyes instead of glimmering blue, but he likes him all the same. It's a quick process; buy the guy a drink, ask him if he wants to get out of there, and it works. It always works.
They get back to Ian's apartment, and luckily everyone was out. They know well enough not to stay there during the weekend where Ian was obviously more active.
They rip at each-others clothes, rushing towards the bedroom in a midst of kissing and hands roaming over their bodies. They don't quite make it to the bed without kissing roughly, biting at lips, hands cupping at bulges, gasping echoing into the heated air. The guy pushes him up against the door, attacking his lips; great Ian thinks, he needed a rough one.
“What's your name,” Ian gasps against the strangers skin, hands trailing down urging to slip underneath the waistband of the guys pants.
“Ash-h,” The stranger grunts out, lips attaching to Ian's exposed neck. “You?”
“Ian,” He answers, pushing Ash onto the bed with a rough shove to his chest. Leaning down, he trails kisses down the strangers stomach, getting the button of his jeans. With his teeth he pulls it down, hands falling beneath the waistband, humming against the satisfactory moans he was making the other man make. Ian pulls down his jeans, resting himself between the guys legs and pushing their hips together.
Ash grips at his neck, pulling him down to lick at his lips, his teeth nipping at the skin of his jaw and down to the side of his neck. Ian closes his eyes, moaning out something in a slur, ready to finally feel a release until the whole contact disappeared.
“Mickey?” Ash shoves him off forcefully, a disgruntled expression on his face. Ian's throat burns.
“Uh, wait what?” He asks, utterly confused but aware of what he had done. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Ash shakes his head, ashamed, before pulling up his pants. “Who's Mickey, he your boyfriend?”
“No, Listen Ash-”
Cutting him off, Ash shakes his head. “No. You listen. Just let me grab my shit and I'm out of here, why don't you call your fucking boyfriend and stick it in him instead? Huh?” Ash stalks out of the room, and after a couple of clatters, the apartment door slams shut against its hinges.
In a heave, Ian flops against his bed, staring up at the ceiling. What the fuck was happening to him? He couldn't even fuck a random stranger anymore without calling out the name of the fuck that clearly hated him and he didn't even know.
His horniness was completely ruined, and he hadn't even got laid. In all his defeated glory, Ian decides to move and believes he needs a coffee to die down the embarrassment and shame. So he slips into his jeans, fully clothed he walks to the shop.
Lip and Svetlana are on the counter, they both look up in confusion as Ian stumbles in.
“Ian,” Lip asks, in shock but slightly amused. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Yeah, aren't you meant to be balls-deep in some pretty boy by now?” Svetlana asks, bluntly, her eyebrows nearly touching her hairline. Ian had never known this would be a shocker.
“Didn't work out.” Ian sighs, wanting to forget the whole thing. Barging past them, he walks over to the coffeepot, pouring it into a cup he happened to find against the counter. He winces in pain when he realises that it's hotter than expected.
There's a brisk silence, shock filling the air. Ian doesn't get it. He darts around, tiredly, coffee in hand. “What now?”
Lip crosses his arms, pulling a face. “Since when did you not get laid on a fucking Saturday night?”
“Don't always get a winner.” Ian shrugs, trying to avoid the conversation at all costs.
“No, but-” Svetlana walks forward, crossing her arms in a scowl. “What did you do, Orange boy?”
Ian furrows his brows, offended. Why was it him who had to the bad thing? “Why do you automatically assume I didn't something? What the fuck, guys.”
Just as the two were about to explain, the door to the shop slams shut and a familiar brunette walks in – cold brushing off of his body. Ian almost drops his mug, wanting to run as fast as he could from the place and just lie in a ditch. “Of all fucking times he has to come now. Why he hell doesn't he just leave?” he mumbles quietly, but loud enough for Lip to hear.
Lip and Svetlana both exchanges glances, bewildered. “What do you mean now? What's he got to do with any of this?” Lip asks, urgently.
Ian ignores the questions, he can't be bothered explaining the whole thing, and cradles his coffee.
Mickey approaches the counter, looking questioningly over to him. “You going to take my order or what?” He asks, bluntly, but Ian could sense the smile tugging at his lips.
The thing was, Ian didn't feel like acting all nice today. After his fuck up nearly an hour before, he didn't feel like plastering a smile against his face and asking the guy if he was okay. For some reason, the guy he didn't know who fucking hated him, was just making it worse.
Instead he settles for being bitter, “I'm not working.”
Mickey scowls at his bluntness, tutting towards the others staring. “You two working or you gonna stand there and do fuck all for your whole shift?” He asks, gesturing towards Lip and Svetlana.
Lip flips his pad over, sighing. “Fine. What can I get you?”
“Black coffee.”
After Lip takes his order, giving Ian a questioning look, he walks over to the coffee machine and batches up a new load. Ian tries not to watch Mickey sit down at his usual table, sending quick glances over to Ian as if he was in state of confusion mixed with anger. And as annoyed and irritated Ian felt at that point, he couldn't help but feel an unusual twist in his stomach.
Unexpectedly, Ian feels a mug being shoved into his chest. He looks up quickly, “What do you want me to do with that?”
“Give him the fucking coffee,” Lip orders, standing before him with a slightly menacing stare.
Ian protests, “Fuck off I'm not even working.” He sneaks a fast glance over to Mickey's table; the man is staring into his lap, fiddling with his fingers, with his usual dominant, grunted face. Ian can't stop himself from feeling a little sympathy for the guy, against his rules of complications.
Svetlana swats his forehead, “Fucking do it, or I'll chop your dick off.”
Ian would never mess with his Russian friend, nor would want to put his dick in danger, so he switches his mug for Mickey's and reluctantly steps out from behind the counter. He walks over and dumps the mug down against the table, with a grunt he turns swiftly on his heel so he could just drink his coffee like he always wanted to, but Mickey's hand jolts out and catches his wrist.
“Wait- Ian-” Mickey says, almost a whisper, his firm grip is rather tight. The guy had never called him by his name before – hell, the guy didn't even want five minutes with Ian.
He turns tiredly, sighing, “What?”
“What the fuck is up with you?” Mickey asks, letting Ian's wrist go to drink from his coffee cup.
Ian blinks, feeling himself brew with confusion. “There's nothing- what?”
Mickey scoffs half-heartedly, before putting him out of his misery. “You're acting like an utter dick, I just want to know why or what fucked up your night?” God, why was this guy was fucking interested anyway. It wasn't like he was enthusiastic to learn life stories the last time he was here.
“Why?” Ian asks, scowling, slightly angry. “Why the fuck do you even care?”
Mickey shrugs, avoiding eye contact to the best efforts. “Don't.”
“Then don't fucking ask.” Ian mutters bitterly, stalking back toward the counter and grabbing his coffee in anger. Lip and Svetlana look expectantly at him, glancing back to the brunette in the booth who wouldn't stop gnawing at his nails. They watch Ian as he chugs down his cup, not saying anything towards the situation.
Lip nudges Ian's elbow, “So, what the fuck happened?”
“Nothing he's care about.” Ian utters, before leaving quickly out of the shop. He's suddenly determined to get his mind off that fucker sat in that shop, and he's not going to stop until he finds some pretty boy to distract him. First stop; the club.
Ian gets way too drunk, almost to the point where he couldn't see, but he still had his looks and boyish charm that still manages to pick someone up. He doesn't remember the guys name, nor what he sounded or smelt like, but the guy was blonde, strong fucker too, and he fucks him in the bathroom of the club he only just remembers walking into.
Surprisingly, he wakes up in his own bed, still in last nights clothes, with a massive hangover, a cloud of self-hatred following him and crick in the side of his neck. But, irritatingly, he still had that fucker in his head. The stupid brunette, thug asshole. Instead, he heads to the kitchen, groaning when he hears Lip scream in a laugh from the table.
“Fuck off, please.” Ian whispers in a whimper.
Lip's sat at the table, papers around him, cradling a mug of coffee. “Rough night, little brother?”
Ian just grunts, slipping into a chair beside Lip, taking large sips from the coffee before him. “I don't want to speak out it.”
“You look fucking horrific. Do you even remember what happened?” Lip asks, amused.
Ian falls silent, remember how he acted towards Mickey, remembering how he called his name out whilst trying to get off with some stranger. Lip kicks at his leg to get him to answer, “Yeah.” He replies softly, rubbing at his eyes. “I remember.”
Lip knows there's something up, he always did, but he takes it in himself not to prod further. “You gotta any plans for tonight?” He asks, trying to subject.
Ian sighs, he had many plans. Like crying into his pillow, maybe. “Well, I was gonna-”
“Nothing? Good, stop moping around because you're coming to this thing with me later.” Lip buts through, noting something off on his papers before shuffling them into a pile. “And no backing out or I'll kick your fucking ass.”
“Thing?”
Lip nods, “Yeah, some campus party, heard there's a tone of weed there might as well check it out.”
Ian huffs out, pressing his face into his hands. “I don't want to fuck any college dicks tonight.”
“Then don't. Take a break from being the towns slut, Jesus.” Lip rolls his eyes, scooting his chair over to Ian eagerly. Lip was always good with persuasion, and Ian knew he would end up going to that party tonight whether he liked it or not.
“I'm dying, though.” Ian cries dramatically, flapping his hands up and down to his sides.
Lip steps up, slapping Ian against the shoulder on his way out of the kitchen. “Shut the fuck up, you big baby, I'm dragging your ass there.”
***
The party, as it turns out, wasn't that bad. Despite the on-going puking from a round of girls, and people copping off behind the campus buildings, Ian was relatively having a good time. There was alcohol, so it wasn't that bad. Hair of the dog always did its tricks.
He's in the middle of talking to some girl, blonde-haired – fake boobs, type – with no plans of taking her home – her plans spoke otherwise – when he sees a glimpse of a familiar face across the party. “Mother fucker.” Ian hisses, ducking himself around a tree he happened to be stood against.
The girl follows, raising his eyebrow, following his line of sight and rolling her eyes when she noticed it was the brunette, thug from down-town. “Usually a girl wants to know if you're sleeping with someone else before she starts chatting you up, you know.”
Ian glances back for the first time since he had seen Mickey, and frowns, “I'm not sleeping with him.”
“I didn't say you were,” She smirks, amused, and Ian feels his neck flush up. “Seriously, if you like the guy just go up to him, stop fucking around. You ain't going to get anywhere just staring off into the fucking distance, are you?”
“No,” Ian replies, word drawn out.
“Exactly,” The girl leans against his shoulder, “Now think about it, would you be happier with him than alone?”
Ian stops breathing for a moment, repeating the question in his head as the blonde walks off into the dancing crowd. What did he think? He hadn't been thinking straight since the first day Mickey had walked into the shop.
It takes him a good fifteen minutes, five shots of Vodka, and a inspirational talk from some random dude, to finally talk to Mickey. He wanted to do it right this time. “Uh,” He stutters as he approaches the smaller man – rectifying his features. Mickey was damn hot, like really really fucking hot. Not to mention the change of attire, his button up underlying his broad shoulders and curved back. Shit.
Mickey jolts around, eyebrows shooting up, he shakes his head. “What the fuck you want?”
“To start over.” Ian mumbles, hand out but Mickey doesn't take it. Not unexpected really. “So...what are you doing at this rigorous campus party, huh?” Ian tries to make conversation, failing miserably.
Mickey's stern expression doesn't change, “ Fucking bitch of a Sister wanted me to come.” He points his finger over to a couple in the corner. Which- holy shit was that Lip sucking on her neck? Mickey's sister looked exactly the same of Mickey, same hair; most likely the same eyes and cranky attitude.
“Holy shit. That's my brother, we should tell her he's got a -”
“Man,” Mickey pushes a hand into Ian's chest stopping him. “She won't give a shit, aright.”
“Oh, okay.” Ian stutters, punching himself internally at his failing persona. He was so fucked.
Mickey huffs out a impatient breath, as if he was waiting for Ian to talk, before he looks around expectantly, biting at his lip. “My fucker of an ex is probably getting off with some college prick as we speak. I don't know, guess I wanted to see it for myself.”
“Yeah,” Ian breathes, understandingly.
They stand there for a few minutes, before Ian finally bucks up the courage to say something again. Mickey was so damn close that he could hardly breathe, and despite the threatening altitude Mickey was really embedding himself under his skin. “Hey, you want to get a drink we me? Not like – I don't fucking know. As friends, maybe?”
Mickey scoffs, face hard. “We're not friends.”
“Having a drink with a stranger can be extremely exhilarating.” Ian jokes, with a dopey grin.
The brunette bites at his bottom lip, looking up towards Ian through his lashes. “You're fucking buying.” He shoves Ian to the side, burping as he chucked his drink into the grass with one swift throw.
Ian shouldn't find it attractive; but he fucking does.
***
They both sat inside some bar, that Ian clearly knows (because lets face it, he knows any joint that serves alcohol and allows men to cruise around looking for a fuck) that's only a couple of blocks from the college campus.
Ian looks at Mickey through the corner of his eyes, expecting him to say at least one thing. Until, he realised stupidly, that they didn't even know each-other. All Ian knew, was this guy wasn't one for sharing, and definitely wasn't one to piss off.
They both get beers and sit in a booth in the corner, knees absently brushing. Ian feels a tingle in his chest, more of a spark but he had never believed in that shit, he cradles his beer as if he's about to explode before bringing up, “I never got to tell you what happened last time.”
“What you blabbing about?” Mickey scowls, unsure of what Ian was relating to. Ian relishes in that expression, becoming quite fond of it, before he explains, “Last time I, well, I had seriously feelings for someone and it fucked everything up.”
“And?” Mickey wavers his hand, peeling off his coat as if he wanted Ian to elaborate.
So, Ian does. “Well, it was, holy shit it was three years ago. I was dating some older guy, and fuck, he was hot and all that but I barely knew who I was, I mean I felt so shit about myself back then. This guy was some popular Jock, who obviously was out of my league, but as it goes – I got with him. He was my first boyfriend ever, I mean – I fucked guys, sure, but not this.” Ian looks at Mickey for a reaction, but the brunette is just listening contently, staring into the glass of his beer.
“I was scared shitless because I'd never been committed to anyone or anything. It was all this big fucking mess and I couldn't control it. I did know that I was in love, or I at least thought I was. I belonged to someone, you know, it felt good to matter.”
Ian takes a sip from his beer, feeling Mickey glare at him. His face was starting to grow hot, and he had no clue why he was telling this guy his life story but, fuck it, he couldn't bottle it up anymore.
Sighing, he carries on, “I guess he took advantage of the fact I couldn't do anything, that I was just some south-side piece of trash whilst he was up there. He started sleeping around, all that shit, with girls too – that just fucked me up worse, I mean – I couldn't be good enough if he went from fucking guys to girls, I just thought it was my fault,”
“Eventually, I worked up the courage to stand up to him, and he, uh...” Ian laughs bitterly, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “He hit me, a lot, said all this shit to me, that I was some worthless piece of shit, that did I really expect him to be faithful when he was with me. But, yeah,” Ian stutters, “Yeah, that's it.”
Mickey lets out a breath, looking out towards the bar. “Fucking hell, man.”
“Yeah. I know.” Ian chugs the rest of his beer, before puffing out. “I guess after all that shit I just realised how much easier, and less painful, it was not to be attached, that if I had sex with any fucker, I wouldn't ever put myself in that state again. I was comfortable with that. Until, well, you.”
“ Me?!” Mickey almost yells, spitting out his drink. “What the fuck man, you don't even know me?”
“Exactly!” Ian replies, exasperated. “I don't fucking know you, and that's the problem! It makes the whole thing so irritating and stupid. The fact that I think about you all the time, that I actually want to go to my deadbeat job hoping that you'd stop by. That I actually might want a real relationship for the first time in three fucking years because of you. You. Some asshole that I don't even know.”
Mickey doesn't show off any sort of reaction, instead he leans back, gulping down his beer. “You really think about me?” He asks, blankly.
Ian scoffs, think was an understatement. “Yeah. It's really fucking irritating.”
“Fuck,” Mickey mutters, wiping his hand over his face. “Man, I can't- I think this isn't-”
Ian's heart sinks into his stomach, he knew it was too good to be true. “ Right, your fiancée. I get it. Didn't even – shit I shouldn't of just assumed you were over that dick.” He looks back down to his beer, as if he it held all the answers to the on-going list of his problems.
Mickey shrugs, chewing at his bottom lip. “Nah, man. To be honest I'm over that fuck. His fucking loss is all I can say, but you – you're just fucking complicated.”
“Complicated good or complicated bad and fucked up?” Ian asks, allowing himself a little hope.
“Just-” Mickey stops himself, shaking his head, face stern. “Just fucking complicated.” Then he slides out from the booth, placing a couple of bills onto the table – despite the fact he told Ian he wasn't paying. Without a look to Ian, he leaves.
Ian's mood shifts drastically, from relatively happy and a little tinge of hope, to hollow and numb. He literally couldn't feel his fingers. He really shouldn't have let Mickey in, let him embed himself into his mind and under the fibres of his skin. There was something stopping him from walking away, from letting the brunette go. But, after all, he'd always been in one-sided relationships.
At this moment, its clear he should scan the room and find someone who could fuck in the bathroom, or win a sneaky blow-job from. For some reason, he feels like he might hurl just in the thought of that. He hates it. He hates Mickey for making him feel like that.
Ian leaves instead, he knows he should go by his rule, but fuck it. He's broken all of them.
He vaguely notices that its pouring outside, but he knows he should ring Lip to come pick him up. He thinks against it. It had been a while since he had a walk, or a run for that matter, and they were the only things that could side-track his mind. So he runs.
It only takes thirty seconds for Ian to get soaked, his white-shirt pressing tightly against his body as he runs for his life, shoes slapping against the stone floor. It's late and he's freezing, but he doesn't stop. It feels like a quick movement from the bar to the apartment and he's starting to think the whole thing was just a daydream – that his life was finally snapping back to reality.
It wasn't a dream, though, was it? Ian had fallen head over heels for a guy that wanted fuck all to do with him, and was so obviously, so clearly, in love with his ex. Ian was so fucking stupid, so fucking naive to think that a guy he had met only a couple of times would feel the same.
So fucking stupid.
“Ian?” Lip's voice pulls him away from his thoughts, standing at the frame of the apartment door. “What the fuck happened?”
Suddenly, Ian finds himself snapping, yelling through the hall. “ Everything is fucking wrong, Lip, fucking everything. And I can't – I just – what the hell am I doing-” Ian's voice breaks, the croak evident in the shatter of his words. It had been the first time in three years, since his abusive boyfriend finally got out of the picture, that this had happened. And soon enough, all the bottled problems, the guilt, the shame from sleeping around, the tears at breaking point, all came falling – a heaving weight pulling him down.
Lip had seen this a couple of times, it made his skin crawl with anger, his little brother didn't deserve to shatter like a glass window. “What the fuck happened, Ian?” He asks, after pulling Ian into a crushing hug, hand soothing against his back.
Ian hesitates, pulling back to wipe his eyes. “I...I fucking opened up to him, Lip. About Carter, about me about everything. I fucked up. He's obviously still in love with his ex, how could I be so stupid I told myself I wouldn't go back to this.”
Lip gently closes the apartment door, and grips to Ian's arms, whistling. “Fuck, man. That's a pretty shit situation you've got yourself in.”
“Yeah, well,” Ian wipes his eyes with his jacket, sniffing pathetically.
“It's shitty, but I don't know what to say, man. He's either gonna come around, or just fuck off. Either way you're going to end up in tears because that's relationships for you, they are shit. Now deal with it, suck it up, you can't go all heartbroken on me now, right?” Lip says, smiling kindly, dipping lower a little to look into Ian's eyes.
Ian attempts a minuscule nod, starting to get embarrassed that he cried to his brother about a guy.
“ And,” Lip starts, laughing a little. “If he says he wants fuck all to do with you, you can do so much better. Fuck em' if they don't want to be with you-”
“Already done that.” Ian mumbles.
Lip nods, agreeing with a sigh. “Yeah, you fucked nearly the whole town, by hey – who gives a shit. If he doesn't want your ass I'll be waiting with a bag full of weed and two knock-off bottles of Vodka, right?”
Ian nods again, even managing to break out a small smile.
“Now fucking hug me, asshole, you ain't getting out of here unless you do.” Lip smugly smirks, arms opened wide welcoming Ian in, Ian doesn't move. Lip raises his voice, “Hug your brother you dick, I'm your fucking elder.”
The younger boy laughs, wetly, before pulling his brother into an embrace. “Mickey's sister, huh?”
“Yeah,” Lip breathes, soundly a little bummed. “Karen dumped my ass when she caught us.”
Ian lets out a little laugh, expectantly, “How the fuck did we end up like this?” he asks.
Lip pulls back, grin on his face, with a smack to Ian's shoulder he replies, “Bad parenting, I guess.”
***
Ian's got some sort of horrific routine going on, that he can't stop. He's been working, going home to eat and sleep, and then waking up and going to work again. They ask him, they always do, and he always says it for the extra cash, that he doesn't mind cleaning floors for an extra two hours, but he knows neither of them believe him. They've all caught on it's about Mickey, some-how, and that Ian needs to be distracted in all ways possible.
One night, Ian and Svetlana are working the late shift. Ian knew how hard it was for Svetlana, now that she was pregnant and finally showing, and he guessed she was tired and worn down from her already gone five hour shift, so Ian tells her to go home. He ensured that he could take care of everything himself – there were no customers happily passing through, anyway.
Ian's wiping down the tables, for the third time, when he hears the shop door click shut. “Hey, Ginger-snap” A deep voice says, and the only person that ever called him that was- no. fuck.
When he turns, it's surely his ex-boyfriend. The guy he had fell in love with those years back. The first guy had ever been committed to. The guy that broke his fucking heart into two.
“Carter,” Ian says, trying to keep the nervousness away from his voice. It doesn't. “What are you doing here?”
Carter smiles, deviously, walking towards him and invading his space. He backs him up against the wall, hands on either side of Ian's chest. Licking his lips, he answers, “I've been thinking a lot about you. Us, actually. I've missed you.” His finger gently trails down the present bumps of Ian's abs.
Ian feels sick, he wants to bawl up, all the memories flashing back. What us? He fucking hit me for years and never thought anything of it. What does he want from me? He shudders in his spot, hands clenching at his sides as he tries to speak.
Carter gets way too close for comfort, pushing himself further into Ian. That's when everything came flashing back; the drinks, the laughs, the dates, the staying up all night talking, the dinner that nearly burnt down the kitchen, the getting an apartment together, thinking shit, I'm in love with this guy. Then everything else; the anger, the fights, the shouting, the beatings, the bruises he had to hide, the nights where he would come home smelling of someone else. The things that made Ian nearly die, made him want to leave and never come back.
The things that made him believe he couldn't ever be in a relationship again.
Carter's right there, smiling, grinning dangerously and hungrily. “Come on, baby, we could be happy again. Don't you want that, don't you want us to be happy? To be with me?” Carter's hand trails lower and lower, Ian feels like he can't move. Can't scream. It was all happening to fast.
“No-” Ian grits forcefully, regaining control over himself and starting to struggle for the first time, which of course shoots a spot of anger in Carter's eyes, his grip tightening against his arms.
Carter leans in, causing Ian to flinch as he sniffs up the skin of his neck. “Don't you remember how happy we were together, baby? All the good times we had?” He says forcefully, gripping Ian so hard that he was forming bruises against his skin.
“Stop! Please fucking stop!” Ian yells, trying to rip himself from the other man's arms, but he couldn't. Then he feels his whole stomach drop, his heart flinch, when Carter rushes forward and aggressively smashes their lips together, no softness or romance, just anger and utter control that Ian knew he would always have over him. His hand is clutched to Ian's head, pushing him into a hold that the redhead couldn't rid of, trapping him against the wall.
Ian struggles as much as he can, but Carter is way too strong for him to handle, he knew this from the first beating of their relationship. He's not able to pull away as the other man kisses him again, breathing heavily into his mouth. “Mmm, this is good baby. Remember this?”
“Get the fuck off me!” Ian shouts, turning to the side to earn to leverage before shoving Carter off of him. The taller man stumbles, his face turning malicious. Something that Ian hadn't missed over the years. As expected, Ian braces himself for the punch, Carter's fist swinging harshly against his face, sending him backwards. It hurts, it burns, it had been a long time since he had felt it. He wants to run but Carter's blocking his way, about to swing when-
Suddenly, the taller man is pushed against the floor, trapped by a straddling small, brunette with a black jacket and when Ian leans forward he can clearly make out the crude tattoos against his knuckles, through his blurred eyes, that it was fucking Mickey.
Ian holds his palm against his bleeding nose, and hears the brunette shout, “You fucking sack of shit!” Then there's a shout of pain, before Ian flinches at a crack of bone. “You like beating down on your boyfriends, huh?” When Ian rushes over, he can see Mickey continuing to punch Carter in the face, nose covered in blood.
“Jesus Christ, Mickey-” Ian says shakily, before gripping at Mickey's shoulder. “That's enough.”
“You fucking kidding me?” Mickey says incredulously, fist still hitting against Carter. “He fucking tried to-”
“I know.” Ian sighs, tears forming in his eyes, he looks down to Carter and feels no sympathy what-so-ever. The abusive fuck deserved none of it. “But it's okay. I'm fine. I just- I just need to-” Ian trails off, feeling his breathing go loose, going light-headed and his legs didn't seem to work that much anymore. He stumbles over to the booth, collapsing into it, breathing heavily as he rests his head into his hands.
Mickey's still pinning Carter down, when he asks. “Hey, Ian, you okay?”
“I will be.” Ian replies, unconvinced himself, breathing out shakily. “Let me call 911, I don't know how else to fucking deal with him.”
“I do,” Mickey smirks, leaning down with a grip to Carter's hair. The man groans. “I'll take off his fingernails, knock out his teeth, dump his body in the toxic fucking river.” Whilst his words come to an end, he slams Carter's head against the floor.
Ian rolls his eyes, a little amused and flattered Mickey had even come by. “Mickey, you're not killing him in here, so quit fucking teasing.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“I ain't cleaning fucking blood off the floor, for the fourth time tonight, that's fucking why.”
Mickey sighs, pouting a little causing Ian to snort. Carter groans beneath him, and Mickey looks down at him, growing angry again. “Shut the fuck up.” He spits, punching Carter hard, effectively knocking him clean out.
Ian spends a few good minutes explaining to the 911 operator the whole situation, and why Carter was on near-death at this point. When he puts the phone down, Mickey's gotten up and walked over, scowling towards the blossoming bruises forming around Ian's eye, nose, and arms. Ian's confused at why the guy even cared in the first place. “I swear to fucking God-”
“Mick, just leave it. I'm fine.” And despite Ian's protests, Mickey is too darn stubborn and won't give up until he was holding napkin to Ian's face, dabbing at the blood clotted around his nose and by his right eye. “Fine my fucking ass.” Mickey mutters, angrily.
“Thanks,” Ian whispers, softly, wincing at the touch. “I don't what he would've...” He looks down to his fiddling fingers, trying not to picture where he would right now if it wasn't for Mickey.
“Hey, Firecrotch,” Mickey weakly smiles, touching at Ian's shoulder so lightly he could barely feel it. “This shit won't happen again, okay, I won't fucking let it.” He dabs at the patch of blood at the side of Ian's face, the redhead remained confused, before adding. “You should of let me kill that fucker.”
Ian nods, smiling a little, “Imagine living in the same fucking apartment as him.”
***
After the cops arrive and take both of their statements, Carter is loaded off into an ambulance because apparently Mickey had broken his nose in at-least three places; but they used it as self-defence in Mickey's case. They also promise Ian that a retraining order will be perfectly adamant. Obviously he agreed.
Ian calls Lip, telling him about the whole situation, and after the other man threatens to kill Carter and dump his body into the lake, just as Mickey had, he tells Ian to close the shop and make sure it was closed for a couple of days in advance.
After all the cops and paramedics had left, Ian sat himself down into the small booth that he had once saw Mickey in the first day he had come by. It's around six-thirty and he doesn't even feel tired, for once, but he wouldn't blame himself for that.
Mickey slides in next to him, chewing at his lip nervously. “You, uh, probably wondering why the hell I came here in the first place?” He asks, as if he had been rehearsing this beforehand.
“I didn't have much time to, with the whole abusive ex-boyfriend gag,” Ian offers a small smile, giggling a little when Mickey's eyes nearly roll off his head. “No, you're right. Why did you come back here?”
Mickey stutters a little, “Well, I, uh, well – I thought about what you said the other night, I really did, and well – I haven't stopped fucking thinking about you since. You're like a fucking rash that won't leave, you know that? It's really fucking irritating.” He laughs a little, turning to look at Ian. “I know you think I still love him, but I don't, I don't think I ever did.”
“But-”
“Shut the fuck up, Ian.” Mickey warns, before starting up again. “I guessed if I was wasting so much time thinking about you alone, I might as-well think about you with you. I just came to tell you that. But then shit went down and you were nearly dying, so.”
Ian swats his chest, “I wasn't fucking dying, I was just merely struggling.”
“Yeah, Yeah.” Mickey hums, knocking his knee against Ian's.
Ian tries to keep the smile from leaking into his expression but doesn't quite succeed. “So, you've been thinking about me?”
“Uh, yeah.” Mickey answers shyly, cracking his knuckles a little. “So, you, uh, want to get coffee sometime?”
The younger man bursts out laughing, almost doubling over as he clutches his sore stomach, feeling more pained from laughing other than the bruises. “ Seriously ? How long have you been waiting to use that one?”
“Fucking months, man.” Mickey laughs along with him, “Did it work?”
Ian nods, face flushing red as his smile nearly breaks his face. He leans in, hand slipping gently at the back of Mickey's neck and presses his mouth against his, moaning at the soft but rough texture of the lips he had been dreaming about for weeks.
For the first time, Ian feels like it's okay to put his faith into something, because Mickey made him feel helpless, numb, butterflies attacking his stomach, and that was a good thing.