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Home was a concept that had evolved over time. Once something that had never given Mickey much pause.
At first it was nothing more than a physical structure, a convenient way to refer to the place where he slept. Then it was a feeling, a sense of belonging, of security in who he was and where he wanted to be. It was a title, a kingdom, a legacy and future he was born to. He yearned for the day his father would take his last breath, so that he could rebuild. Terry Milkovich may be King of the South Side, but he was not a king in the hearts of his people.
But ultimately, despite the vast acres of land at his feet and in his name, for Mickey home was a person.
Ian would forever be home. Home was the strength in his embrace, the heaving rise and fall of his muscular chest where Mickey lay his head. Home was the feeling of Ian next to him, above him, surrounding him, inside of him. It was sharing the heat of panting breaths between gaping mouths. It was sweat-slicked skin and bruising grips. It was being filled and fulfilled, both owned and free.
He had never had a home before Ian, not really. Home was a place where you could be safe. For a long time, Mickey had only understood survival. He understood following orders and standing in line. He knew how to look down his nose and sit at his father’s flank as though entirely impassive to his rule. He was used to burying everything he was down so deep, deep, deep. He understood making it to the next day, making yourself scarce, knowing with absolute certainty everything that you couldn’t be.
But moment by moment, inch by agonizing inch, Ian had started digging. With his bare hands in the dirt, he clawed away at all the places Mickey had long forgotten he’d buried.
Piece by piece he had unveiled the crux of him, the parts that would never have seen the light of day without him. Ian was the light the weeds reached towards, the first drops of water after a lifetime of drought. Ian was what it meant to thrive.
He had been banished from his own homeland. He was a bastard child of the Irish Gallagher lineage who had been desperate to start anew. But despite his stripped noble lineage he had no interest in power, not in the way that so many others coveted. Ian was powerful in wholly different ways.
He was strong and confident, broad shouldered and could wield a sword like it was an extension of himself. He was an expert marksman who was silent and deadly with a bow. He was charismatic, with an easy smile and an ability to sooth even the most volatile stallion. Ian was captain of the guard and had never lost a duel, desired and envied by kingdoms far and wide.
But he had a quiet intensity in his gaze that flared only if people knew to look for it. He had a capability for softness that belied his reputation. His calloused palms caressed searchingly over Mickey’s flushed skin like he was precious. Ian would speak orders in a slow, drawling husk, almost reverent until Mickey was on his knees, at his feet without even realizing he was obeying. Ian had a kind of command and control that made Mickey feel powerful.
Ian had a way of making Mickey feel like he wasn’t a conquest, though Mickey knew that Ian had had many bed partners, and he knew that countless others would have loved the chance to brag about bedding a prince. But somehow, Mickey trusted that Ian wouldn’t do that, that that wasn’t what this was.
He’d threatened him of course, that first night, when mead and wine had spilled and their sensibilities had escaped them. Ian was only a few weeks into the job, and rapidly rising through the military ranks. Mickey remembered the venom in his own voice as he sneered: “You tell a single soul about this, and they won’t believe you. But more importantly, you won’t live long enough to tell another.”
Ian had simply smirked, like the idea of telling anyone was outlandish. They’d met under the cover of night quite regularly since then. But there were times when Ian was away for extended periods, recon or political dealings in neighboring lands. The head guard would always accompany any royal entourage. It hadn’t taken long for Mickey to grow to miss him.
Sometimes in the quiet, after their bodies had become reacquainted, Mickey would consider voicing these thoughts. He’d think about a long term plan, about what would happen when Terry was gone, when Mickey had power in a real, tangible way. His mind would wander, wax poetic and spin ideas of him knighting Ian before the entire kingdom, so he could be considered a nobleman in his own right, acknowledged and highly respected as a guard and formidable fighter. Ian could become a Lord.
There was no royal decree that stated somebody of royal blood could not marry beneath their station. Mickey could marry a non-royal if he so pleased, as long as they were of noble blood or creed, or influential enough to demand the respect of the people.
Of course Terry would never allow Mickey to marry another man, royal or not. To be caught with another man was punishable by death in the South Side, an unshakeable part of his father’s rule. Mickey couldn’t wait for the day that King Terry Milkovich would finally perish. There were so many laws that Mickey would abolish, punishments and prison sentences he would overturn.
Mickey would dream of the day he was crowned. He would see justice done for those like him. He would knight Ian, give him a title he had always deserved. Then he would marry him.
He hadn’t told Ian any of these dreams. He felt that speaking them into existence would be to tempt fate. He couldn’t bear to give Ian any false hope if these plans never came to fruition.
So things continued in much the same fashion. Mickey only felt home, felt safe, felt real when Ian was a part of him. And he would be bereft each time Ian had to leave again. They’d long grown past the point of pretending this was just physical, some sordid affair.
Mickey had once resigned himself to an inauthentic life. He thought that if he ever married at all it would be under Terry’s instruction, used as a political bargaining chip to further trade negotiations or maintain power. He had never let himself want it for himself, never allowed himself to believe it could be possible.
But he yearned now in a way he had never believed himself capable of. He wanted Ian in any and every way and it would never be enough, he would always be plagued with the insatiable need to get closer and closer. Forever.
So he dreamed of a someday, a far off time where he could have the power to choose.
He’d never cared much for power until he had something to strive towards. Now he would play his part, be the pawn, do what Terry wanted and make sure the title would never go to another, because one day, one day, Terry would croak. And Mickey would be free.
He was making his way back to his chambers when he saw Ian, standing guard in the entrance hall outside the throne room. He’d been away for a number of weeks, escorting Mandy to meet the prince of a neighboring kingdom. Mickey hadn’t known that they’d returned.
Mandy liked Ian, spoke to him in informal ways that Mickey would never risk. Mandy didn’t have to worry about stepping out of line, she wasn’t watched with the same intensity as Mickey. Her political marriage had always been an inevitability, but she seemed to think the Lord in question was nice enough, and his family were insisting on repeated visits to build a sense of familiarity. It was less than she deserved, but more than she could’ve hoped for. Still, she liked to tease, to flirt with the guards in her own small act of rebellion. Mickey grit his teeth and clenched his fists and worked to pretend it didn’t bother him. Ian laughed about it, teased Mickey in secret.
“Prince Mikhailo,” Ian greeted with a graceful bow of his head and impeccable posture.
Mickey hated it.
He knew rationally that it wasn't possible, and wasn't safe for Ian to seek him out as soon as he was on home soil. But he longed for it anyway. He’d been gone for so long protecting Mandy when she didn’t need it, talking to Mandy, spending time with Mandy. Mandy who had the semblance of freedom that allowed her to be herself. Sometimes Mickey couldn’t help but begrudge her for that.
With a lifted chin Mickey strode past Ian, who did not abandon his post. A part of Mickey hoped that it hurt Ian to have to stay there, to watch Mickey walk away and be powerless to stop him. It was the same way that Mickey would stare out of his bedroom window each time the guard was called away, and watch helplessly until the man he loved was nothing more than a speck on the horizon. Powerless.
That night Ian came to him, like Mickey knew he would. He stayed up until the kingdom fell quiet, and smoked out of the large stained glass window of his chamber. His rooms were in their own wing, not occupied by his father, his sister, or his drunkard good for nothing brothers. It meant there was nobody to overhear what he and Ian did together, but it also meant that if Ian was ever caught coming or going, there was no doubt of who he would have been with.
Ian let himself in, and the door shut behind him with a soft click. Mickey didn’t turn away from where he stared out over the land. He could hear Ian moving ever closer, shucking his coat as he did so.
“You’re unhappy,” he said.
Mickey scoffed and flicked the remainder of his cigarette to the grounds below. He turned to Ian incredulously, his eyebrow curled upwards. Ian looked tired, still broad and foreboding, but there was a wariness in his eyes, a slight pout to his mouth.
“You’ve known that for a long time,” Mickey finally replied.
“I thought I made you happy,” Ian responded, and it was supposed to be teasing, but it didn’t land.
It was a layered, complex thing. In the moments when it was just the two of them, when they could pretend the outside world didn’t exist, Mickey had never been happier. But there were times like this, times like earlier today in the entrance hall, when they were straddling the two worlds, caught between the roles they had to play and the people they really were, and it all just felt devastating.
“When did you get back?” Mickey couldn’t help but ask.
“Early this morning, before dawn.”
“You didn’t come to me,” Mickey said. His tone was soft but accusatory.
“Mick,” Ian’s voice was pleading, tender. “With everything going on and us getting back so late, it would’ve been too obvious if I were to slip away, and by the time things had settled down you would’ve already been up for the day.”
Mickey nodded. He’d assumed as much. It didn’t make it any easier.
“But you came to me now,” Mickey said, and it was lighter, teasing. He permitted himself a small smirk.
“Always will,” Ian promised. His eyes were alight with that flare that others may mistake for danger, Mikey knew it as passion. “As long as I’m able.”
He strode forward, and pushed the robe from Mickey’s shoulders as he reached for him. Mickey’s hands grasped at Ian’s face, slipped into his short cropped hair, typical of the guard. In some of Mickey’s imaginings of the future Ian’s hair was grown out, bright and thick and soft to the touch. Now his thumbs caressed behind Ian’s ears as their lips met.
It didn’t take long for the kiss to deepen. Ian’s hands gripped at Mickey’s hips as if afraid he’d disappear, and their tongues touched and twined in desperate need. Their clothing was shed with practiced ease, their lips only breaking away for the briefest moment to lift Ian’s shirt over his head.
Skin on skin was always electrifying. Ian’s chest was a warm, solid, grounding place for Mickey to drop his head. He panted softly into the hollow of Ian’s throat as he was manhandled onto the bed. Ian’s back was against the headboard and Mickey’s knees moved to straddle Ian’s hips. Ian’s hold gentled, his fingertips brushed in fiery trails up Mickey’s ribs, up to his throat. One hand wrapped around the supple flesh whilst the other cupped his chin in tender reverence.
“What do you want, your highness?” Ian said softly, a teasing lilt to his smile.
“Fuck off,” Mickey complained, just like Ian knew he would. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
Their mouths met once again and Mickey closed his eyes as the hand around his throat loosened its grip, brushed down the length of his body, and reached around to cup and pull at his ass. So lost was he in the sensation of Ian’s kisses that he didn’t even hear Ian rustling around in the bedside drawer for the lube, and gasped wantonly as a slick finger started to toy with him.
Time was a little lost after that. It had been weeks since they had been together, even seen each other. Mickey was hyper-focused on the way their bodies moved together, on the sounds they pulled from one another. He panted hot and heavy, his kisses lost their coordination as one finger became two, and then three. His thighs were trembling where he still hovered over Ian’s lap, their hard cocks brushed together on occasion as Mickey gently rocked back and forth, chasing more sensation. For a prolonged moment he just breathed into Ian’s mouth.
Slowly, Ian’s fingers slipped out, and his hands came up to grasp once more at Mickey’s hips, wiping the remainder of the slick on his own aching cock along the way. His thumbs worked in gentle, circular caresses, and his arms flexed as he took Mickey’s weight, easing the strain on his tense and quivering thighs.
“You okay?” Ian asked.
His voice was sweet, genuine. Mickey had never known how to respond to kindness. His father ruled through fear, his family has always followed his lead. Mickey was confined to the castle grounds, with limited social skills at best. He wasn’t used to tenderness.
But over time, over the months they’d spent together, Ian had taught Mickey how to be soft, to be vulnerable, to be okay with it. Their hurried, almost primal fucks had petered off into slow, intimate affairs. They now savored every second, unafraid and unhurried.
“You know I am,” he teased back.
“Doesn’t hurt to ask,” Ian returned.
Mickey rolled his eyes, but placed his hands on Ian’s shoulders for leverage. He stared down at this man, unbeaten in battle, scarred and muscular, a force to be reckoned with. Yet he seemed so pliable, open. Their gazes caught and held, and there was so much between them that neither of them had words for.
“I’m the only one you surrender to, huh, tough guy?”
“At your mercy, your highness.”
“Fuck off,” Mickey laughed.
Mickey wiggled slightly to get Ian to loosen his grip, and slowly he began to lower himself onto Ian completely. Ian’s hands helped to guide the movement, and it was like he was holding his breath as Mickey’s body consumed him inch by inch. With his head thrown back, his skin flushed and breaths choppy, Mickey marvelled at the feeling. Ian began to pepper kisses to the prince’s bared throat. The soft, small rocking motions of Mickey’s hips were enough to drive them both wild, building up to something they had both been longing for every second they were apart.
Before long Ian planted his feet and worked to meet Mickey’s movements, and soon those wiggles and rolls were frantic little bounces. Mickey held eye contact in a way he never would have when this whole thing between them had begun. But now he was unashamed, actively turned on by the intimacy of it. Their gasps and groans filled the space, Mickey’s breaths hitched every now and then, catching like the beginning of a sob. Suddenly the angle changed slightly and every part of Mickey’s body clenched, he knew Ian could feel it. Time ceased to exist as their movements grew more frantic, their skin sweat-slick, kiss bruised and flushed. Their gasps grew higher, their kisses sloppy. Their eyes were full of love.
It didn’t take long for them to reach completion.
For a long time afterwards they basked in the togetherness. Mickey’s head was resting on Ian’s shoulder, tucked almost into his armpit as he molded himself to his lover’s side. Ian’s arm was around Mickey’s shoulders, his fingers caressing wherever they could touch.
“How’d you even end up with the guard?” Mickey asked. “The Milkoviches overthrew the Gallaghers generations ago, didn’t even know any of you guys were still around here.”
“After I found out Frank wasn’t my dad but my uncle, I thought maybe coming back here would help me understand who I am,” Ian murmured, and turned to place a kiss on Mickey's temple. “But it just made me spiral. Spent a long time feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere. Had a lot of rage about a lot of things. A member of the guard saw me working in some underground fight club at a tavern one night, the only way I knew how to make money. I got recruited.”
Ian shrugged like it was nothing. But Mickey couldn’t believe he hadn’t already known this. Why hadn’t he thought to ask before? He had been so busy counting his blessings that he had Ian at all that he didn’t think to question how. Someone angry and scrappy and vengeful would’ve been the exact kind of fighter Terry would have wanted. He was surprised Terry had never mentioned it himself, especially considering how quickly Ian had gotten promoted.
“Why would you wanna work for the family that overthrew your lineage?”
“Didn’t really feel like it was my lineage anymore,” Ian shrugged. “Plus, I didn’t really know how bad Terry was back then. Didn’t know he’d kill me if he knew about my preferences.”
“Then why stay?” Mickey asked incredulously.
He understood his own need to stay, to play his part. Because he believed it would be worth it in the end, that playing the waiting game to acquire the power to change things was important, and was bigger than him. Ian wasn’t trapped in the same way.
“By the time I realized how bad things really were it was too late,” he said simply.
The look he gave Mickey then was so soft, open and honest in a way they could only ever be with each other. Mickey turned on his side fully, raised a hand to rest over Ian’s heart. He kissed Ian’s chest gently, but his eyes were downcast, his lips slipped into a pout. He didn't like to think that he may be keeping Ian somewhere where he couldn’t be happy, couldn’t be free.
“My loyalty has only ever been to you, my prince,” Ian said sweetly.
And for the first time the title didn’t feel like a jibe, didn’t make Mickey cringe or shiver. It felt like an honor, it felt like a fairytale term of endearment rather than a political title. Maybe being prince wasn’t so bad, as long as he could be Ian’s.
“Though,” Ian began. “We could always just run away, start anew.”
“No,” Mickey said with certainty. “We can’t. I’ve always dreamed about being King of the South Side.”
“Why?” Ian asked, incredulous. “You hate him. You’re not safe, not happy here.”
“Exactly,” Mickey whispered. “I won’t be safe anywhere as long as he breathes. Nobody like us will be. So I have to stay. Have to wait, have to outlive that bastard so that when the throne is mine, I can undo it all. Make sure not a single person mourns that fucker.”
“Hmm,” Ian murmured. But there was a glint in his eye, that same flame of danger and passion that Mickey had long ago fallen in love with. “Then perhaps I should kill him.”
Mickey began to scoff, to smack lightly at Ian’s ribs at the ridiculousness of it. But Ian didn’t waver. They looked at each other for a long moment, as if suspended in time, not knowing how to proceed. But Ian’s features gentled, and he leaned in to press a kiss to Mickey’s lips. He didn’t take it back, and Mickey was hit with the realization that the decision was his alone to make. Ian was serious. Mickey didn’t doubt that Ian could do it, but…
“You’d be sentenced to death…”
“Who would be left to sentence me?” Ian asked in a tease, and realization dawned on Mickey.
“You’d trust me with that?” Mickey asked. “You’d put your life in my hands.”
“I would trust you with everything. I would follow you anywhere. Forever.”
Forever.
It was only everything that Mickey had ever wanted.