For firemoon-walks-in-starlight :)
"Happy Birthday, Mick," Ian says, curling a hand around Mickey's stomach and tracing a path with his tongue up behind his ear.
He can practically feel Mickey rolling his eyes.
"Fuck off, Gallagher," he says, even though he makes no move to shake Ian loose, "You better not have got me some pansy ass present!"
Ian snorts into the back of Mickey's neck, relishing in the shiver that running his teeth along the tendon coaxed from the other man. "You kneed me in the balls last time I got you a present," he points out, "I'm not an idiot."
"Don't make it sound so fuckin' deliberate, Gallagher, Jesus!" Mickey mutters, poking at the bacon in the frying pan in front of him, "I turned around to hit you and your damn donkey dick just got in the way."
Ian laughs. "Well I could take my 'damn donkey dick' elsewhere if you want."
The fact Mickey doesn't do anything but roll his eyes said a lot.
They'd both been in too deep to really walk away a long time ago. The difference was that now; they were both willing to acknowledge that fact. And to acknowledge that neither of them even actually wanted to leave.
"Shame you want to pretend it ain't your birthday," he says, pushing his hands under Mickey's shirt and scratching at the trail of hairs leading down into his boxers.
It really shouldn't have been so sexy that Mickey insisted on walking around in t-shirt, boxers and his damn grandpa slippers; but it totally was.
"Well fuck me for not wanting cold fucking feet, Gallagher!" he always said whenever Ian made fun of him for it. Mickey always got defensive, even though he knew that Ian loved it. Seeing Mickey walk around like that in their apartment felt all domestic – and shit , as Mickey always put it.
Mickey flicks off the hob and lifted his burnt – "it's called crispy Gallagher, fuck" – bacon out of the frying pan with a pair of tongues. He shook it around for a moment, splattering oil everywhere.
"Yeah," Ian says, pulling a hand out of Mickey's shirt so he could grab his wrist and direct a piece of bacon to his mouth. Mickey huffs at the loss of the food, but he didn't fight it. "Was going to give you a lap dance and everything."
Mickey laughs, his chest and stomach shaking under Ian's travelling hands. "You can actually do that shit sober?" he asks and it's obvious from the tone of his voice that he thinks it's a stupid idea. "I'll pass thanks, Gallagher."
"Shame," Ian says, biting at the back of Mickey's neck, "Was going to do while I was naked." He sucks at a patch of skin behind Mickey's ear, the one that always made his knees buckle just that little bit. "And you would have been naked." He rakes his blunt fingernails across Mickey's abdomen, before pulling his shirt up and off. "I even broke out the good lube especially."
He hears Mickey's breath hitch in his throat, but by then he's being spun and pressed up against the counter next to the cooker. Mickey's hand pushes its way down the back of his boxers. Two of his fingers push easily into him and Ian doesn't know which one of them moans.
"F-uuuuuck," Mickey grinds out, his pupils blown wide and his bottom lip slick with spit as he stares up at Ian. "Wondered what you were doin' in there that took so long."
Mickey presses forwards and kisses him in a way that's more teeth than lips, but still more pleasure than pain. It's the sort of kiss that makes Ian scrabble for purchase on Mickey's wide shoulders and that has him forgetting how to breathe with how perfect it all feels.
He makes an annoyed, tortured sound when Mickey drags his fingers free from his ass, but he only opens his eyes when Mickey steps completely away.
"Where you going?" he asks, hardly able to comprehend what's happening.
Mickey chuckles, dark and deep and so impossibly sexy with the way it scrambles Ian's brain in under 0.5 seconds. His fingers curl around the back of one of the kitchen chairs, the one that doesn't match the other two.
"Thought I'd make a fuckin' exception this year," he says, sitting down heavily in the chair, his cock already tenting his boxers.
"Oh yeah?" Ian asks, moving closer because he could never do anything but. They've always been magnets, drawn to each other for reasons neither of them no how to explain. It didn't ever matter what got in between, nothing was ever going to change that.
"Yeah," Mickey says. "So come on, Gallagher… give me my fuckin' birthday present."
Ian braces one hand on the back of the chair and leans close, his other hand reaching down to palm Mickey's dick through his boxers. He presses their lips together briefly, forcing his tongue into Mickey's mouth and tasting bacon and grease and the remnants of Mickey's morning breath.
All things that should never make his cock ache quite like they do.
"It still gonna cost me twenty-five bucks?" Mickey asks, teeth worrying the corner of his lip.
"Maybe," Ian says, sliding into Mickey's lap in one fluid movement. He hides the way his eyelids flutter shut at the friction between their dicks in Mickey's neck. "Or maybe I'll knock ten bucks off for the birthday discount."
Mickey snorts right before he sucks a hickey under Ian's jaw that he knows isn't going to be gone by the time he goes back to work on Monday – the bastard. "And what does the boyfriend discount get me?" he asks, not looking at Ian, because he still can't ever look at Ian when he says that word.
But that's alright, Ian's over it by now. He's just happy that Mickey's saying it at all. Life and all the lessons its taught him proved that he has to learn when to pick his battles. And also, that there won't ever be a point in trying to push for something that's already pretty damn obvious.
Ian grins, winding his fingers into the back of Mickey's hair and pulling his head back so that he can stare him dead in the eye. He doesn't miss the way that the corner of Mickey's mouth twitches in response, his eyebrow cocking as he waits for his answer.
"That'll get you anything," he says honestly.
"Well how about a fuckin' blowjob then?" Mickey asks when the air gets thick enough that it was only a matter of time before he got uncomfortable.
Ian rolls his eyes; but he sinks down onto the floor anyway. It is Mickey's birthday after all.