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Ian never would have pegged Mickey Milkovich as the domestic type when he met him. Maybe because when he met him in the backroom of the White Swallow they were both tripping off ecstasy, and were too busy trying to get each other’s pants off. They parted without so much as exchanging names with only angry looking hickeys as a souvenir of their encounter.
Until about two weeks later when Ian walked in into a floral shop in and saw the object of his fantasies arranging a bouquet of Casablanca lilies. They never lost contact after that. First in the form of random booty calls in the dead of night, then “not dates” mostly in the form of Seagal movie marathons, and where they were now; Ian practically living at Mickey’s place (not that either of them would call it that). It was just “convenient” with Mickey’s apartment over his floral shop only a few blocks from where Ian worked as a tattoo artist. And it definitely did have it’s advantages.
“Food smells funny,” Ian frowned as walked into the small kitchen.
“But it’s gonna taste delicious,” Mickey informed him.
“Not smelling like that.”
“You put ketchup on your eggs. Your senses can’t be trusted.”
Ian walked behind his boyfriend, snaking an arm around his waist and pressing tiny kisses to his neck. “So about this weekend…?”
“I’m working.”
“But I’ll be there and you’ll be there and there will be alcohol and cake.”
Mickey dumped a bowl of teriyaki sauce in the pan, suppressing the shivers Ian’s ministrations were causing. God, all he had to do was be in the same room, and Mickey became hyper aware of everything he did. Every motion, every time he spoke. He was beyond whipped, and it was becoming too much of an effort to pretend otherwise.
“And my family,” Ian finished, abandoning Mickey to pull a beer from the fridge.
“I figured since your sister’s the one getting married,” Mickey reminded him. “I’m just there to provide the flowers. Thanks for the referral by the way.”
“You don’t think Fiona was suspicious when I just happened to know an insanely hot florist in Boystown?”
“You work in Boystown. She probably thinks you did my tattoo or something.”
“Like I would take credit for your shitty juvie tats.”
Mickey flipped Ian off before turning off the stove. He had never really minded his tattoo before. Everyone had made dumb decisions at 13. The only difference between him and everyone else is that his is a lot more permanent and visible. That was until he met Ian. The first time they had been mostly clothed, in a rush to meet orgasm as soon as possible. Sometime after that Mickey had the chance to peel off the bulky layers of winter and see Ian’s skin, painted with intricate tattoos down his arms and shoulders. Occasionally he would spend hours tracing those lines in the dead of night when Ian was sleeping soundly next to him. Not that he would admit to doing so. Ian was smug enough all ready.
“Speaking of which, Carl wants some ink done,” Ian told him, setting Mickey’s small table.
“That’s the second youngest brother, right?” Mickey asked. He had more or less learned the dynamics of Ian’s stupid complicated family.
“Yeah. I’m trying to convince him to not get something culturally appropriate-y.”
“He outgrew the grills and doo-rags. He’ll embrace his own mayo culture soon enough.”
“We’re Irish.”
Mickey served the teriyaki chicken and sat down across from Ian. Looking at the fucker was like staring at the Sun. Sometimes Mickey felt as if he were going to go blind if he looked at Ian’s face for too long. Instead, he trained his eyes on his plate and began eating. He grinned to himself when Ian’s foot began to slide along his calf.
“How long does it take to set up flowers anyway?” Ian asked, stabbing at his plate.
“You really want me to meet your folks?” Mickey wondered out loud, even though he was pretty sure he all ready knew the answer. Family was important to Ian, so of course he wanted shove his annoying ass relatives in Mickey’s face.
“Only if you want to.”
Mandy though he was being a prick. She was prancing around his shop, in a dingy pair of overalls and yellow bandeau, charming the pants off of walk-ins. The second the shop emptied, she turned on him, rattling of every curse she could think of.
“You’re an unappreciative fuck,” Mandy admonished him. “Ian’s so good for you. Better than your other boyfriends. Remember that time you caught crabs from--”
“Mandy!” Mickey snapped.
“You are the most skittish assholes. You’re not boyfriends, but you’re definitely not seeing anyone else. Ian’s not on your lease, but I can’t remember the last time he went home and you won’t even let him have a drawer.”
Perhaps Ian and Mandy were better friends that he thought. Citing that she saw him way too much at work, she rarely made plans to see her older brother outside of the shop. Of course that didn’t stop her from dropping in at his apartment whenever she needed literally anything. On more than one occasion Mickey had been out on deliveries and had come back to his apartment and found Ian and Mandy sharing secrets like eight year olds at a slumber party. They swore up and down that they had more interesting things to talk about than him, but obviously that wasn’t the case.
“It’s complicated,” Mickey argued weakly. “You know know what I’m like -- what you’re like.”
“We grew up going from foster home, to foster home, creating a sense of instability,” Mandy told him as if she were reciting from a psych textbook. “Now you’re afraid of permanently setting anywhere or with anyone because they might leave you.”
“I own a business. That’s pretty permanent.”
“You inherited this business,” Mandy pointed it out.
Their last foster home, when he was 16 and Mandy was 13, was the best out of all the other ones. They lived in east Chicago and became a tight knit family unit, the likes of which Mandy and Mickey never had before. Miriam and Harry made sure that both of the Milkovich siblings graduated from high school and while Mandy took a road trip across the North American continent after finishing school, Mickey took a job at the flower shop Miriam owned. He learned the business from the ground up, hoping that he would be able to take over it one day. That day came all too soon when Miriam died of a stroke, and Harry followed not even six months later.
It seemed the only thing they had to remember him by was the shop. Mandy had driven all the way from Vancouver to help plan their funeral and after that she had just stayed. She moved into their old house, renting out the other rooms to college students, and running the shop with him. It was a pretty good set up even if it felt as if they were both at a stand still for the moment.
“You love him,” Mandy said firmly. “Even if you’re too chicken shit to admit it.”
“It’s just… what if I make things permanent and he decides he doesn’t want me anymore?”
“Impossible. The guy look at you as if the Sun shines out of your ass.”
“It does. Next renewable energy source.”
Mandy threw the nearest plastic pot at him.
Ian picked up the spare key under Mickey’s welcome mat and let himself in. More than once he had to stifle the urge to keep the key from himself, especially with the the knowledge he was probably the only person who used it regularly. He couldn’t chance that Mickey would see it and freak the fuck out as he was prone to do, so he placed it back under the mat before walking in.
The place was quiet, except for the faint strains of music coming from Mickey’s bedroom. He walked through the small apartment, careful not to make a sound. He opened the slightly ajar to Mickey’s bedroom further… and his knees almost gave out.
Mickey was sprawled on his back, naked, three fingers working inside of him to the rhythm of the soft R&B music playing. His eyes fluttered open and he smiled as he spotted Ian standing in the doorway.
“I was just thinking about you,” Mickey murmured. “Get over here.”
Ian shed his clothes in record time and climbed over Mickey, burying his face in the brunet’s neck. Everything about him was intoxicating from his scent to the way he was flushed from exertion. He ran his hands down Mickey’s body, hoping to memorize every slope and valley. He reached down in between Mickey’s legs and removed Mickey fingers before replacing them with his own.
“Jesus, you’re already prepped,” Ian breathed against Mickey’s mouth.
“Get inside me then,” Mickey urged, pulling him up for a blistering kiss.
It lacked all of the finesse and technical skill that Ian prided himself on. It had an urgency to it that they had never experience before. It seemed as if Mickey was trying to communicate with his body that he couldn’t put into words. When they peaked together, nails digging into Mickey’s back, tongue plundered deep into mouth’s, Ian wondered if it would always be this good.
“Hickey’s real professional,” Mandy pointed out as she arranged Fiona’s bouquet.
“It’s not my fault you never get out of Boystown to get some dick,” Mickey chuckled.
When he found the right door, he knocked and almost instantly a black woman opened it. She had long dreadlocks piled on top of her head coiled into an elaborate bun. She was wearing a champagne colored bridesmaid dress that showed off a bit too much cleavage.
“You the florist?” she asked, noting the Lakeview Flowers shirt he was wearing.
“Yep,” Mandy told her. “We have the bouquet for the bride here and the bridesmaids in the cooler.”
“Come in. The bride is freaking out.”
“Am not!” came a dissenting voice from inside the suite.
The woman, Veronica, she introduced herself as, ushered them in. She was completely done up, as was, the other bridesmaid, a pretty redhead. The bride, Fiona, Mickey assumed, stood there with wet stringy hair in a robe.
“Doubt I’m going to need that bouquet,” Fiona sneered. “My makeup and hair stylist canceled on me. And I can’t get married looking like this.”
“And I don’t know anything about white women hair,” Veronica lamented.
“And the last time I let Debbie touch my hair, I couldn’t run a brush through it.”
“That was one time!” the redhead protested.
Mandy gave the bouquet to Mickey before walking over to Fiona. “I could do you hair. I’ve been cutting and styling my own hair since I was thirteen. If you have flat irons and stuff.”
Fiona seemed to eye her warily before nodding. “What other choice do I have?”
Mickey ran into Ian in the hotel elevator. Mandy was busy working on Fiona’s hair, and he still had to help the crew he had hired set up the flowers on the balcony. He put his hands in his pocket as he took in Ian in a tuxedo, hair slicked black to perfection, just a hint of five o’clock shadow. He suddenly felt severely underdressed in his t-shirt and jeans.
“What the fuck man?” Mickey wondered out loud, slinking into a corner of the elevator.
“This thing is hot as fuck,” Ian pulled at his collar and Mickey saw hint of the colorful tattoo he knew was etched onto the skin underneath.
“You’re telling me.”
Mickey studied the floor as the elevator went high and higher.
“Why are you so far away?” Ian asked after a while.
“Because your tux is rented and I definitely won’t be able to stop myself from ripping it off you if you were like six inches closer.”
He heard Ian chuckle before giving Mickey a swift, hard kiss just before the elevator doors opened.
“My floor,” he murmured before walking out of the elevator.
It was simple but stylish affair on the rooftop with the Chicago skyline as the backdrop. Fiona and Angela walked hand in hand down the aisle with their nearest and dearest surrounding them. Both brides carrying bouquets of Casablanca lilies and white roses. Unfortunately, Mickey missed most of the ceremony to prepare for the reception. By the time he was finished with his surprise, the party had moved indoors to the hotel ballroom. The brides were having their first dance to what suspiciously sounded like “All I Ask of You” from The Phantom of the Opera.
Ian was standing at the edge of the crowd, sipping champagne. Mickey casually slipped a hand around his waist. “Come here often?”
Ian turned sharply and took in Mickey standing there in a matching tux. His face split into a grin, and he resisted the urge the kiss right there.
“What is this?” Ian asked.
“I wanted to meet your folks,” Mickey explained. “And not as the florist but your…”
“My what?”
“I don’t fucking know… boyfriend? Partner? Lover?”
Ian cringed as he slid a hand to Mickey’s shoulder. “Oh, my God. Never call me your lover again. Boyfriend is fine.”
While they were distracted, it seemed the party had migrated to the dance floor. An upbeat Justin Timberlake song was playing. Without thinking much about it, Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand and led him to the dance floor. Ian had told him that in a past life he had been a go-go dancer but Mickey honestly couldn’t imagine it with way he thrusted his hips on 1 and 3. Fucking embarrassment.
“I got you something else,” Mickey said after Timberlake had dissolved into a slow John Legend ballad.
“Yeah,” Ian murmured, his hand rubbing circles into Mickey’s back.
“A key to my place.”
Ian stepped back to look at him. “A key? I could just keep using the one under the mat?”
Mickey looked down at shoes before pulling the key out of a random pocket.
“It’s for when you move in, shithead,” Mickey explained quickly. “If that’s in two weeks or two years or whatever.”
Ian looked at the key thoughtfully before snatching it from Mickey’s hand and pocketing it. “I’m thinking in the next two days or however it long it takes to move my stuff from Fiona’s.”
Ian did kiss him then just a swift peck with a promise for more. It seemed they had the rest of their lives.