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The door slammed shut.
Ian stumbled into the house with a strange, clumsy gait. Unsteady, almost swaying. His red hair stuck out in every possible direction, falling into messy tufts. There was a wide grin stretched across his face, from ear to ear, his eyes half-lidded. He was humming something under his breath, some stupid song, but so quietly and slurred that it was impossible to make out a single word.
Without bothering to take off his shoes, he wandered into the living room, where Mickey was sprawled out on the couch, looking like he’d already been asleep.
Ian, however, had other plans.
He leaned unsteadily against a chair, trying to keep his balance, but it slid under his weight, nearly tipping over.
Mickey jolted awake instantly.
In one sharp movement, he was on his feet. Posture snapping into something defensive, ready to fight. His knees bent, shoulders hunched. His hands curled into fists, held up instinctively. His dark brows pulled together into a deep scowl. His eyes were still sticky with sleep. He had been out cold just seconds ago but now he looked like a bulldozer guarding the house.
“Ian?” he said, and his stance softened immediately. “Fuck, man. What the hell are you doing out this late?”
Ian barely registered the words, they bounced around uselessly in his head. He let go of the chair, swaying straight toward Mickey.
“Mickey… ohhh, Mickey” he slurred, grabbing onto his broad arms for balance.
“Jesus Christ, you’re drunk!?” Mickey’s hands instantly went to Ian’s body. Even though Ian was taller and heavier, he managed to steady him somehow. Because without him, Ian would’ve hit the floor.
He tried not to think about how far gone Ian must be right now.
“No!” Ian laughed. “Mickey, what the fuck are you even talking about?”
“Did you take your meds?” Mickey snapped. “Ian, fuck — answer me!”
His voice rose despite himself. He didn’t mean to shout, panic just grabbed him by the throat. He knew Ian was supposed to take them regularly, and he absolutely wasn’t supposed to mix them with alcohol. And God forbid if he had taken them and washed them down with booze.
The thought hit him all at once, sharp and ugly.
His grip tightened instinctively, fingers digging into Ian’s relaxed muscles as if he might collapse any second.
“Oh, Mickey,” Ian sighed lazily. “Stop fuckin’ talking and pull your pants down. Stick that ass out.”
Heat rushed to Mickey’s face before he could stop it.
The words were filthy, completely inappropriate. Under different circumstances, they’d have wrecked him. But right now his head was full of worry, overprotective instincts firing like sirens.
“Fuck — stop screwing around and answer me,” Mickey took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “Did you take your meds? Did you drink on them?”
He looked straight into Ian’s eyes, that intense, bright green.
“I dunno. Maybe,” Ian started laughing.
Mickey knew that laugh. Too well. Mania.
He looked closee at the blown pupils, the unfading grin.
“C’mon,” Mickey muttered, glancing around like he was hoping for divine intervention. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“What? No!” Ian protested immediately. “I’m not tired, Mickey. I’m so fucking hard and ready. I’ll fuck you so good, I swear.”
He was rambling now, completely unaware of what he was saying. Mickey’s eyes betrayed him, flicking down to Ian’s crotch.
Fuck.
Ian wasn’t lying.
But it didn’t matter.
Because Mickey wasn’t touching that. Not like this. Not when Ian was like this — loose, unguarded, vulnerable.
“C’mon,” Mickey said again, looping Ian’s arm over his own shoulder so he could lean on him.
Ian immediately did the opposite. His other hand came up, gripping Mickey’s shoulder. Their faces ended up inches apart. Ian was still smiling.
Mickey froze.
Because fuck — he was so close. And in such a bad state.
Ian’s lips crashed into Mickey’s, clumsy and off-target. Their teeth knocked together as Ian tried to deepen the kiss. And Mickey cracked. He kissed him back — hard. He parted his lips, and Ian took the invitation instantly, tongue sliding in, kissing him greedily. Saliva mixed, teeth bumped carelessly. They both got lost in it.
Until Mickey’s conscience slammed into him.
Was this kiss even real?
Ian wouldn’t remember it. He was drunk, manic. Impulsive, reckless, living entirely in the moment. Tomorrow didn’t exist for him right now. And worst of all, either he’d taken his meds and chased them with alcohol… or he hadn’t taken them at all.
Mickey broke the kiss abruptly, pulling back just enough to breathe. Ian’s hands still hung loosely on his shoulders.
“Ian. You’re going to bed. Now.”
“Ohhh, okay!” Ian laughed suddenly. “But on one condition.”
“Which is?” Mickey asked warily.
“Dance with me.”
“What?” Mickey stared at him.
“Dance with me. Right here. Or I’m not going to sleep,” Ian giggled.
Mickey turned his head away, jaw tight. He didn’t fucking dance. Especially not like this. Not now. But after a moment…
“Fine,” he muttered. “One minute.”
“Oh, Mickey!” Ian beamed, sliding one hand around Mickey’s waist and placing the other on his shoulder.
Great. A slow dance.
Mickey was completely out of his depth. Ian started swaying gently side to side, dragging Mickey with him. Mickey cursed under his breath, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot, but he did it. Because it was Ian. Because he loved him.
They drifted toward the middle of the room, moving to a rhythm that didn’t exist. Like music was playing when it wasn’t. Ian rested his head on Mickey’s shoulder, nestling into his body, breathing him in. Both of them slowly relaxed. Ian’s breathing evened out. Mickey’s too. Because seeing Ian like that had scared him, not angered him. Fuck sleep. He didn’t care. As long as Ian was safe.
They turned slowly, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Wrapped in each other. Mickey could feel Ian’s heartbeat against his chest.
And that calmed him.
“Alright,” Mickey cleared his throat, stepping back. “Minute’s up. Bed. Now, dancer.”
The light in Ian’s eyes dimmed. He sagged suddenly, like a marionette with its strings cut. Mickey didn’t know if it was the alcohol wearing off or the bipolar crash, but he wrapped an arm around Ian’s waist and guided him to the bedroom. He held him the entire way, even though it was only a few steps.
As soon as they reached the bed, Ian collapsed onto the mattress, limp and exhausted. His eyes slid shut. The smile was gone.
Mickey grabbed the blanket from the edge of the bed and draped it over him, adjusting it gently. He crouched beside the bed, near Ian’s face, brushing a thumb softly over his cheek. He looked so fragile. Like he might shatter.
Mickey’s fingers slid into Ian’s messy red hair, smoothing it back, pretending he was just fixing it, when really he just needed to touch him.
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Ian’s forehead, lingering a second too long. Ian wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow.
“Fuck, I love you, asshole.” Mickey whispered.