It would be so easy, in the dim lighting of that summer midnight, to just let it be. To just let Ian lower his arm onto Mickey's shoulders or clasp their palms together, fingers intertwined, as he rambles in his dumb fucking dreamer way about the moon and the stars and them.
And, as they lie near-but-not-too-much-so against the dew-smeared grass without a word, Mickey so wants to. He can pinpoint each of Ian's not-as-subtle-as-he-thinks scoots closer, bare back on the grass. But he doesn't say a word, doesn't protest.
Sure, it would be so easy to just let it be, to allow skin-on-skin contact besides the grip on backs as they near a fleeting climax or the rapid lips on necks, but really—Mickey can't.
With who he is and where he lives, this is just not okay. And he knows that better than anyone else.
But in this moment, the streets are vacant and their location secluded; he can hear that miniscule, unnatural inhale, surprised, as Ian is eventually curled beside Mickey, cheek settled on his chest and an arm loosely stretched across his waist.
It's humid, bugs surrounding with a synchronized song that hangs in the stuffy August air, but it's nice. All of it.
Really, they don't speak, they don't need to speak—even Gallagher understands that speech will ruin this all.
Ian is Ian, though, that dumb fucking dreamer, because in the next instant he tilts his head upward and oh, he should've known this would encourage that fucker, and then Ian's lips are warm and soft and slightly chapped but they're on Mickey's.
And before Mickey can register that he should feel appalled, they're gone, though the memory remains.
As Mickey licks his lips and tries to remember that this is just not okay, he can't help but think that it would be so easy to just let it be.
Thanks for the reviews on my last one—because of them, I'll probably write these drabble-things-or-whatever-the-fuck more often.
p.s.— am I the only one who's dying at the hands of this ship?