"You missed me," Ian decides, in between stolen kisses, settled atop Mickey's hips, hands curled into his shirt. There's sweat on his brow and the dusty fan on the other side of the room isn't helping the heat, but he's smiling like he has a secret.
Mickey swallows his pride and fear and says, "Yeah, shut up," in a way that means he did, he really did, he missed him for six whole months of lock-up without much reprieve. The visits helped, but they still felt distant, impersonal, fingertips against dirty glass and handprints.
"You did." His voice is soft and thin like Mickey's never heard it and he tastes like medicated chapstick and sweet mint gum. "I knew you would."
"You think you know everything." Mickey pulls himself up and props himself on his elbows.
A memory flashes quick and dark over Ian's eyes and he grins stupid and wide, looking fucking retarded in the only way he can. "Almost." And his lips are soft and warm and his hands are slick with sweat as he pins Mickey's wrists to the bed, shifting on his hips, sending something hot crawling in his stomach.
Sometimes he liked it better when they pretended to hate each other, leaving bruises and welts that turned purple when Mickey pressed on them, leaving cuts on lips and white handprints on red skin, but this is nice too, something they don't give a name, sharing huffs of laughter and smiles that no one sees.
The clock ticks to midnight and Mickey says, quietly, "You missed me."
It sounds like a question and Ian doesn't give it an answer, but his smile is huge and mocking and he touches the pulsepoint just beneath Mickey's jawline with reverie and tenderness that makes his hand feel hotter than it is, and he swallows his promise on his tongue.