Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When he wakes up tomorrow morning he’ll realize it was the scent that drew him out here. He’ll realize the night began with a restlessness in his bones and the need to get away from the rest of his family. He’ll realize that he took off further than he’d ever been before all while following the spicy smell that caught his attention miles back. He’ll realize that there had been something building all day. And then he’ll wonder very normal human thoughts like why now? and what’s changed? and where did he come from? and how did I even find him?  

But for now, he’s not human and he’s definitely not pondering the logistics of stumbling upon this place. No, now he’s breaking through the trees into the clearing where this cabin resides and his nose is turning up to smell the air to make sure he’s really found what he’s been looking for. The smell of cinnamon and clove makes his chest ache and pushes him towards the cabin. He carefully picks his way through the garden. There are a couple bunches of flowers but it’s mostly herbs and vegetables and a— are those strawberries? He loves strawberries. He takes just a moment to dip his head and smell them. He’s never smelled strawberries in this form before and the heightened sense makes it mouthwatering. 

He doesn’t lose his focus though. He straightens up and glances at the cabin where the scent is wafting from. He continues his mindful steps, making sure not to crush anything the owner of the garden has spent precious time cultivating, and finds himself standing at the edge of a wrap-around porch. There’s a man sitting on a stool in front of an easel, a paintbrush and palette in hand, and he’s looking out into the woods.

He can’t see much, not because it’s the middle of the night but because the man has his back towards him. He slowly approaches, wanting to get a closer look and see who has lured him out here. He steps on a branch, cracking it under his foot, which causes the man on the porch to jump to his feet. He whips around, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pinched in fearful determination. 

Mine, his animal brain provides—the first coherent thought he’s had all night. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. On and on it repeats in a mantra. The man is beautiful. His skin is probably usually a milky white but in the moonlight it glows silver as if he has fae blood coursing through his veins. His hair is inky black, long and shaggy and, when the Gods smile down on him and provide them with a breeze, mussed. But, Gods, it’s his eyes that kill. He’s never thought much about the advantages he gains every month. They’ve always been part of the transition. Tonight, though. Tonight, he thanks high heaven that he can see the moon sparkling in those ice blue eyes. 

Without thinking—because he rarely thinks in this form on a good night and especially not in the face of him—he takes two more steps towards the man. 

“Are you a wolf?” He stops mid step, paw raised to take one more, when the man calls to him. His voice is gruff and he’s glaring now. “The fuck am I saying? Course you ain’t. You’re fucking… too weird.” He huffs, even in this form he can still be offended. “Right. Werewolf then.” 

He remains still as he waits for the man to say something else. He doesn’t and they end up watching one another—him with curiosity, the other with caution. The man’s eyes flick to his easel, then his stool, and he wonders if he’ll sit back down. He takes that step he’d wanted to a moment ago. He’d take another if it weren’t for the hand that shoots out to stop him. 

“You’re not coming up here to kill me.” He states firmly, as if, if that were really his intention, he’d stop just because he was told to. He huffs indignantly this time and wonders if he’s rolling his eyes like he is internally. The man scowls at him, “Well fuck me for assuming a weird ass werewolf I’ve never met wants to kill me. My fucking bad.” He bares his teeth in irritation. The man flips him off, “Don’t be a dick, I don’t wanna have to shoot you.” 

He growls, just a quiet low noise in the back of his throat to voice his displeasure at the threat. He disregards the man—he’s clearly not that scared if he’s flipping him off. He stalks up the stairs and as far into his personal space as he dares. The man just watches him, this time with more interest than worry. He sits on his rear and glances pointedly from him to the canvas and back to the brush gripped between the fingers of his right hand. 

His face softens as he seems to realize what he’s being asked, “I was just painting.” Then his eyebrows furrow, “I get all… antsy and shit on full moons. Always gotta take my ass out here and do something until I can’t barely keep my damn eyes open.” He licks his lips and looks back at him with something self-deprecating there. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. Fuck man.” He laughs bitterly and goes back to sit on his stool. 

He follows and sits down much closer this time, his fur practically brushing the man’s legs. He can see the art now. It’s a photo-realistic painting of the woods in front of them. The moon is high in the sky, shining brightly through the trees. The shadows their leaves and branches cast twist and cross in a pattern that’s almost eerie. He loves it. Despite it being, at best, half finished.

“It’s not done yet. Don’t say shit.” The man warns him, pointing the brush tipped in dark blue, at his snout. If he had hands at the moment he’d raise them in surrender. He watches him for a moment, putting the butt of the brush between his teeth and chewing thoughtfully. “Don’t you got somewhere better to be?” He asks eventually. To answer his question, he lays down, circling a few times first to get comfortable. With a sigh, he turns back to his canvas and seems to settle into a rhythm once again. 

Time passes differently when he’s like this. On a normal full moon, it’s far too quick. The air will shift around him as he darts between trees and the scent of the forest will lure him deeper and deeper, his brother and sister just a few steps behind him, the younger ones not far behind them. It’s peaceful and exhilarating all at once. It tames the beast inside and releases all pent up tension from the last change. He loves it. And so, time moves too fast.

Tonight, time moves just as fast. But his bones don’t buzz with the need to run. Instead, his muscles are more relaxed than they’ve ever been and his eyelids feel heavy. He never sleeps on a full moon. He runs and jumps and plays until the early light of dawn brings fatigue and the desire to rest. But tonight he’s content to curl up on the old wood porch floor next to a man he’s never seen before, a man whose name he hasn’t the slightest clue, a man who smells like heart and home. The soft sounds of his brush, the creaking of the stool as he shifts, the various noises that fall from his lips when he’s pleased or irritated or disappointed—they all lull him into a comfortable half-sleep. 

When he wakes, he finds that the early morning light is breaking and the man is standing to stretch, arms rising above his head and the soft hem of his t-shirt exposing his lower stomach and the slightest glimpse of his hip bones. He stands as well, shaking out his fur and garnering a disgusted eurgh from the person next to him. 

He looks up and finds the painting done. It’s beautiful and he desperately wishes he could take it home with him. How he’d do that, the Gods only know. The man begins to wave him off with exhaustion etched into his features. “Alright, get the fuck home or whatever. Your monthly doggy break is over. And I don’t wanna see whatever the fuck you look like when you switch back.” 

He huffs and bares his teeth. He’d like to correct him that he doesn’t shift only monthly. That’s a myth spread by changelings, not birthers. Just because they’re stuck between two species doesn’t mean everyone is. Also, it’s incredibly offensive to call him a dog , what the fuck? And one more thing! He doesn’t look horrible at all when he switches back. That’s another myth spread by changelings who always have rough transitions. It’s not fair to say everyone looks like shit when it’s only a small minority. 

“Go on.” He shoos him off again. “Get the fuck off my property.” 

He huffs again but does comply. Not because he wants to or even because he’s at risk for shifting back against his will. No, rather because he’s worried his siblings will come looking for him if he doesn’t get home soon. He doesn’t need to explain all of that to both his family and this human at once. So he nudges the man’s thigh with his snout before bounding off into the woods. 

• - 

As expected, the following morning (it’s late afternoon but they always refer to it as the morning thanks to their long night) finds Ian reflecting on the craziness of the night before. He knows—of course he fucking knows, what birther doesn't—about the possibility of finding your true mate. It isn’t exactly common, and in recent years the number of true mate pairs has dwindled, but it isn’t unheard of either. Ian knows only one true mate pair in his pack of nearly thirty other birthers. And certainly no one in his family has found their true mate in a few generations. It was pretty hotly debated between his siblings if their parents were actually true mates. But once Monica died and Frank simply moved on, continuing to live his pathetic life, it was clear they weren’t. Frank never would have survived if they had been. 

The last known pair had been Ian’s great-grandparents on his mom’s side. Which makes the whole finding his mate thing so unlikely and special. But also, why him? And why now? And what was so special about last night? He sighs and rubs the sleep from his eyes, climbing out of bed to join his siblings he can hear downstairs eating breakfast. 

“Where the hell did you run off to last night?” Fiona asks as soon as he slides into a chair at the table. 

He grabs a plate and piles a few pancakes and slices of bacon before answering, “Found him last night.” 

They’re silent as Ian pours syrup over his food and cuts into it with the side of his fork. He’s swallowing his first bite by the time they come back to themselves. “Like… your mate?” Carl clarifies. 

“Pretty sure. I mean, I only know what Kev and Vee have said finding each other was like. But it was…” He trails off and inhales deeply as if the smell of the man on the porch is still with him, “unbelievable. I was chasing his scent before I even knew what the fuck I was doing. And when I saw him, all my wolf was thinking was that he’s mine. Maybe I’m fucking insane and it’s not like that. But I really think it’s real.” 

“What’d you do? Where is he? Did you bring him back?” Debbie asks, leaning her elbows on the table and staring at him excitedly. 

He shakes his head, “I just… slept at his feet.” Ian laughs awkwardly. “I know that’s not really shit we do on full moons. I was just so relaxed and he was cool with me passing out on the floor. He’s somewhere in the forest. He’s got a little cabin in a clearing, I don’t know. I can’t remember anything about how I got there. When the sun started coming up he sent me home though. So definitely didn’t bring him back.” 

“Why didn’t you just shift back and tell him?” Lip asks. 

“I dunno. I didn’t think that was the best time, I guess. He was kinda weirded out that I showed up at all. He chilled out after a few minutes but at first he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy. I also don’t want to… I don’t know, like, put that kinda shit on him. I’d rather get to know him first and not just hang out solely because the Gods think we belong together.” 

Fiona hums thoughtfully and tilts her head, “How are you going to get to know him if he lives in the middle of the woods?” She asks genuinely. 

“I don’t know.” He huffs without humor. “I don’t know how to find him. I might have to wait until I’m back in my wolf.” 

“Why don’t you just change now and go find him?” Liam suggests, walking into the kitchen from the living room. 

Ian shakes his head, “No. He has no idea about birther norms. He was talking about me only changing once a month and how I’d look like shit if he had to see me turn back this morning. I don’t know if he only knows changelings or what. But I really don’t want to freak him out by showing up as my wolf and then switching in front of him.” 

“That’s awfully considerate of you.” Debbie notes with a smile. 

He snorts, “Yeah I guess. More like I don’t want to lose a chance with my mate before he even knows my name.” 

“Well. Better get hunting. You gonna search the whole area? Washington’s forests are pretty big.” Lip sounds like he’s teasing but Ian knows there’s truth to the statement. He has no idea how far he traveled last night. Distance is so much harder to gage when you’re a fucking animal. 

“You usually run every morning anyway. Just go a different route.” Carl says around a mouthful of bacon. 

“Gross, don’t talk with your mouth full.” Fiona scolds him and smacks his arm. 

“No, that's a good idea. I’ll go after this.” He smiles gratefully at Carl before hurrying to finish his breakfast. 

• - 

He didn't find his mate that morning. In fact, he doesn’t find him until nearly a week and a half has passed. The forest is dense and it’s immensely difficult to remember where he’d gone that night with everything looking exactly the same. When he finally jogs through the clearing, he’s on the other side of the cabin. He can see the garden across from him and he remembers the delicious strawberries. He’s almost sad he hadn’t come from that way. 

Of course, Ian stops caring when he realizes that he’s directly in the line of sight of the man he’d met so many nights ago. He’s sitting at his easel again but instead of looking out at the landscape in front of him, he has a table with a plastic bag of apples he’s studying. Ian watches him for a while—he’s not sure how long but definitely long enough to be creepy—when the man finally raises his head and lays eyes on Ian. 

He doesn’t startle as he had when Ian was a wolf, but his face does twist into guarded confusion, “Who the fuck’re you?” He demands, leaning around to see Ian better. 

He grins, “Ian.” He introduces himself. He leaves out his last name as the Gallaghers are relatively well known to be werewolves. 

The man scowls at him, “I didn’t mean that literally, dumbass. The fuck are you doing here?” 

Ian takes a few steps closer, “I’m a runner. I go every morning. Decided to take a different route today.” He shrugs, “I didn’t know anyone lives out here.” 

“Yeah I’m not fucking advertising, am I? Got a big ass neon sign pointing in my direction.” He snarks and continues to glare at Ian. 

Ian takes more steps until he’s leaning against the railing directly next to the man. He leans over and sneaks a peek at his painting. It’s also hyper-realistic and nearly half-done, reminding him of the first one he’d seen. “What’re you painting?” 

“Are you fucking stupid or something?” He turns and crosses his arms. In the sunlight, Ian can see the splatters of paint along his fingers and forearms, the colors under his nails, and stains over his gray t-shirt. He imagines he must have been in a similar state that night, but Ian wasn’t particularly observant. 

He grins, “My bad. Just trying to make conversation.” 

“I don’t live out here to make conversation with freaks who trespass onto my property.” He snaps.

“What’s your name?” Ian changes the topic. 

“I don’t know you. The fuck would I give you my name for?” 

“Well, you’ll never know me if you don’t tell me.” Ian hopes his smile is dazzling. 

The man’s lip curls, unimpressed. “I don’t live out here to make friends either.” 

He sighs and decides to take the hint. It wouldn’t do to push this soon. He takes a step back and shrugs, “Alright. Maybe next time, mysterious stranger.” Ian backs up until he’s closer to the line of trees, the man watching him intently. “This was fun!” He calls across the clearing and turns around to continue his run. 

And so it goes. The next morning he’s back at the cabin with his charming personality and bright grins. The man looks utterly exasperated to see him again. He chooses to completely ignore Ian, instead focusing intently on the bag of apples he’s still working on. Ian doesn’t let it deter him. He basks in the silence, leaning against the railing with his arms propped up and chin against his wrist, and watches him paint. After nearly ten minutes of this, he turns to glare at Ian and demands he go away. Ian laughs and says, “I was wondering when you’d get tired of me.” But does as he’s asked. 

He returns the next morning as well. This time the man chooses a new tactic. He berates Ian. He scolds him and demands he go away. He insists that he’ll call the police and have Ian arrested for trespassing. He threatens to get his gun from inside and shoot him. Ian takes it all in stride with easy nods and casual shrugs. He eventually tires himself out, probably realizing that Ian couldn’t care less, and begrudgingly goes back to painting. Ian watches him for a few minutes before attempting, “What’s your name?” The man gives him a deadpan look and rolls his eyes. Not one to be deterred, Ian shrugs one last time before promising to return tomorrow morning. “I’ll get it out of you eventually!” Is his parting call. 

It takes two more days before they settle a semi-routine. At least, it’s a routine for Ian. He runs straight up to the porch, leans in to watch him paint, and compliments him every once in a while. He starts with compliments on his skill. Then he moves to his subject choices. Then he moves to how fast he manages to paint and still make it look beautiful. It’s on the sixth day of visiting that Ian becomes emboldened and compliments him.  

“That color really brings out your eyes.” He comments casually, gesturing to the green he has smeared along his cheek. 

The man’s eyes shoot from where they’d been previously locked on his painting, this one of a stack of books. “The fuck you say to me?” 

Ian smiles and, with far too much bold confidence, reaches out and brushes his thumb over the dried paint. “This. It looks good on you.” 

He seems shocked. He’s frozen and staring at Ian like he’s lost his damn mind. Maybe he has. There’s something about spending every morning here that’s made him a little looney. Eventually, he shakes himself out of it and spares Ian one more distrustful look before going back to work. “You’re fucking crazy.” He mutters under his breath so Ian doesn’t bother with a response. 

After sufficient time has passed (and by that he means he’s definitely overstayed his welcome), Ian takes a few steps back. The man looks up at him with raised eyebrows. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He promises with a smile. 

He’s just about to turn around when he hears, “Mickey.” 

Ian stops and tilts his head, “Huh?” 

“My name. It’s Mickey.” He—Mickey—repeats and Ian nearly jumps with joy. 

“Well. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mickey. ” With a delighted chuckle he can’t help, Ian turns around and runs back home. 

When Ian returns the next morning, he finds Mickey (the spark of glee that jolts down his spine at knowing the man’s name is nearly embarrassing) staring at his easel with unease and frustration. He stops at what has become his spot and looks at the canvas. It’s blank. His eyes move to the table he usually sets his subjects to find it empty as well. 

“You alright?” Ian asks when he looks back at Mickey’s twisted face. 

Mickey grunts, “No. I’m getting fucking pissed off.” 

“Why?” 

“I can’t fucking—I’ve got this stupid… worm in my head. I can’t do shit until I get it out.” Mickey complains and tosses his brush down on the table in irritation. 

“Worm?” Ian repeats stupidly. 

He turns his glare to Ian, “Not a literal fucking worm. It’s a saying or whatever. Just means I got an idea that won’t leave me the fuck alone no matter how much I ignore it.” 

“Oh.” He licks his lips. “Uh. Why don’t you just paint it?”

There’s a sharp puff of air and then, “Because I can’t. ” 

“Why? Are you like an artist full time? You have a–a commission or whatever it’s called?” 

“Yes and no. I sell my shit at the souvenir shop in town. It’s all the same vibe—just realism paintings of objects and shit. I never sell like… other stuff.” Mickey’s eyebrows furrow. Ian wonders what he means by other stuff. “This isn’t something I can sell and I don’t work on shit I’m not selling except once a month. That’s it. Got one night to do shit and then leave it alone.” 

Ian perks up, remembering Mickey telling that very thing to his wolf. He said he gets antsy on full moons and has to paint. He hadn’t put two and two together. He hadn’t realized that if Mickey only sells paintings of objects then that landscape he made over a week ago is just for him. “You can’t make an exception?” He wonders. 

“No. If I make an exception now I’ll just do that shit forever.” He shakes his head, “S’the first time I’ve ever had a worm this bad randomly. Usually they’re consistent.” It’s obviously troubling him. He’s frowning now at the clean palette he has propped against the canvas. 

“Oh?” Ian tries inquiring casually. 

Mickey shrugs, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll just… figure something out. There’s gotta be some shit around here I can do.” He glances out into the clearing. 

Ian tilts his head back to see the garden, “What about your plants? Are your strawberries ripe enough to pick?” His eyes immediately fall on the leaves of the bush. 

“How the fuck do you know I grow strawberries ?” Mickey’s looking at him bemused when Ian glances back. 

He feels his face heat and has to look away, “I mean… I’m not stupid.” He grumbles, despite the fact that there’s no way he’d be able to tell what kind of shit Mickey grows over in that garden from his vantage point. 

“Are you sneaking back here when I’m not looking?” He presses with a quirk of his lips, leaning back and crossing his arms. 

Ian scoffs, “No. I’m not a creep.” 

Mickey scratches his eyebrow with his thumb, “Nah, you’ve just been showing up every morning to harass me.” 

Ian gapes at him, “I’m not harassing you!” He protests. 

“Yeah whatever.” Mickey nods with sarcasm laced in his voice and disbelief sparkling in his eyes. 

“You’re really expressive, do you know that?” Ian changes the subject. 

Mickey looks at him, “The fuck does that mean?” 

“Just that you… make a lot of facial expressions, I guess? I dunno. I never have to guess how you’re feeling. Your face tells me everything.” He grins. 

“So what?” He puffs his chest up defensively. 

Ian smiles and shrugs, “I like it, s’all. You’re… captivating.” He feels embarrassed for using such a word. He wonders if it would have been better to just say cute like he’d wanted to. He hadn’t thought Mickey would like being called cute. Now he thinks he’s just being cringey. 

Mickey’s eyebrows raise as if heaven is calling them, “Captivating? The fuck is this, poetry class?” 

He doesn’t know Mickey well enough to know if he’s teasing or if he’s actually annoyed. Honestly? He doesn’t know Mickey well at all. Suddenly, he’s irritated. With himself or Mickey? Who’s to say. But he feels frustrated that this man in front of him is supposed to be his true mate and he knows virtually nothing about him. How old is Mickey? Where is Mickey from? Where’s his family? What’s his favorite color and food and season? Who is he? Ian doesn’t know. And that’s the worst part. Because this man is supposed to be perfect for him. The Gods have chosen Mickey out of the billions of people possible and his wolf agrees with them. He feels… left out almost. Why do they get to know everything while he’s here puzzling over Mickey’s tone and eyebrows? 

Ian smiles with self-deprecation. “I never said I wasn’t lame.” He tries. 

Mickey’s face twitches a little, “You’re really fucking annoying.” But then he’s smirking and it becomes clear that he’s not upset. 

He laughs a little, “Sorry. So? Do you have any idea what you’re gonna paint then?” 

Mickey slumps, “Fuck no. Stupid brain worm won’t go away.” 

Ian rolls up onto the balls of his feet and then back on his heels. “Wanna talk about it? Maybe it’ll help to get it out.” 

Mickey shakes his head, “No. It’s stupid anyway.” 

“Come on, Mickey. What if it really helps?” Ian tries to persuade him.

“Fuck no dude. I just said it’s stupid. Leave it alone.” He scowls. 

Ian sighs and gives it up. “Alright, alright. You want me to go pick some strawberries for you instead?” He offers and starts to back away. 

Mickey huffs, “Do you even know how to pick strawberries right?” He stands and walks down the stairs to head off to the garden. 

Ian hops into action, following him across the grass. “I’ve never picked strawberries before. Can’t be that hard, can it?” 

Mickey glares at him over his shoulder, “Don’t touch my fucking plants.” 

Ian raises his hands in surrender. “My bad.” He presses his lips together to keep from laughing as Mickey squats down and begins to pull one of the stems gently. He looks cute. Ian wants to tell him so badly. Last time he did that though he was accused of being a poet. 

Mickey only picks three as they aren’t nearly as ripe as Ian would want them before he stole one to eat. He heads to set his strawberries up on the table and Ian watches silently. He finds himself captivated by the whole thing. When Mickey sits back down on his stool, Ian back in his spot against the rail, he asks, “Do you feel inspired now?” 

Mickey sighs, “Not fucking really. I gotta try though for fuck’s sake.” 

Ian hums thoughtfully, “Hm.” He purses his lips. “Have you eaten? Maybe that’s–” He jumps when his phone begins to vibrate against his thigh. He frowns down at it as he sees that Liam is calling him. Why the fuck is Liam calling him? “Sorry, my brother is calling.” 

“S’fine.” Mickey mutters distractedly with his paintbrush between his teeth.

“Hey, Liam. You alright?” He walks away just a little so Mickey hopefully can’t overhear. 

“Yeah, yeah. Where are you?” 

“Uh… the same place? You guys know.” He tries to be as vague as possible. 

“Oh. You’re still doing that?” Liam asks curiously. 

“Yes. Can we talk about this at home? It’s–” 

“He doesn’t know!?” He demands and it startles Ian enough that he jumps. 

“No. Look, what’d you call about?” 

“Oh, right. Frank’s…” Liam trails off and Ian’s blood runs cold. 

“Don’t fucking tell me.” He starts. “Don’t fucking tell me that worthless fucking bastard is dead.” 

He hears something clatter behind him and looks back to see Mickey staring at him with wide eyes. “He’s not dead yet. Just… he’s at the hospital. Fiona thought you’d want to know.” 

His nostrils flare as his wolf becomes unsettled. His skin feels stretched too tight and his bones are buzzing and he just needs to shift. He needs to run until his responsibilities have been left behind. He feels sick to his stomach, “What do I need to do?” 

Liam sighs, “The council is probably going to want to see you. I don’t know what Frank’s been up to, but they won’t let his job go undone just because he’s laid up.” 

“I don’t–” Ian cuts himself off and takes a deep, calming breath. “I gotta—I can’t—It’s.” 

“I know, Ian. That’s why Fiona told me to call you now. So you can do… whatever you need to do before you have to see them.” His voice is calming and Ian wishes that it actually had some effect on him right now. 

“Yeah, I. Gotta go. Bye.” Ian shakes his head as he hangs up. He stands frozen, staring out at the trees and feeling his wolf pressing valiantly against the prison of Ian’s body. He feels his breath picking up and the way his change is just a hair’s breadth away.

“Uh, you good?” Mickey asks from his spot on the porch. 

Ian turns to look at him, chewing his lower lip. “No. I need to… leave.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards the tree line. 

“Is…” Mickey trails off as if he wants to ask more but doesn’t know if he can. 

He wants to stay and wait Mickey out. He wants to stay and see if Mickey will crack and ask. He shakes his head. “I really can’t–I need to go. Sorry.” His wolf is two seconds away from snapping his bones in an attempt to escape. He turns and sprints off before that can happen. He’s barely far enough away to feel confident Mickey can’t see or hear him. He knows that the ripping of fabric (and, occasionally, the crunching of bones) can be loud and it would likely draw his attention. 

The wolf takes over from there. He doesn’t know how long he runs for. He doesn’t know where he goes, but he does know he ends up back at home. Once he’s shifted back and stalked into the house, he’s almost instantly accosted by his brother. 

Lip grasps his bicep and tugs on it to stop him. “Ian–” 

“Let go, dude, I’m not doing this fucking naked.” Ian snaps and yanks away. He runs up the stairs before getting dressed. He hears Lip follow him up to the bedroom where he hovers at the threshold. He turns around and snaps, “Spit it out.” 

“He might not die.” Lip tries to reassure him. 

“He’s gonna die, Lip. Whether it’s now or in a couple months or a year. We’ve known he’s been doing risky shit for years. If he’s in the hospital, he’s a dead man walking. And I don’t…” He can’t finish. He knows they both know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t want to do it. Any of it. 

“I know man. I know. And it sucks ass. But you’re–I mean, you’ve been–you’re ready. It’s not like you’re not ready.” Lip insists. 

“I don’t give a shit about being ready! I don’t want to do it. That’s got jack shit to do with whether I’m ready. I just found Mickey. I can’t deal with all of Frank’s shit on top of my own.” Ian shakes his head and sinks down onto his bed. 

“You can always…” Lip tips his head but Ian knows what he’s implying. 

“I can’t just skip out of this. It’s my responsibility. I mean, what the fuck would happen if I just left?” He sighs and rubs his eyes. 

“I don’t know. Does it matter?” 

“Of course it matters, Lip. I’m not gonna let the whole pack fall apart just because I don’t want to step up.” Ian looks at his brother like he’s insane. 

“It was just a suggestion.” He shrugs. 

“Whatever. The council, have they called for me yet?” He shifts his focus. 

“Not yet. At least, not entirely. Kev dropped by an hour ago to ask how everyone’s doing. He said they’d want to talk to you soon but he figured you’d be off running and shit.” 

“Any idea when they’re gonna call me?” 

Lip shakes his head, “No. If you wanna get it over with you could just collect them all now.” 

Ian groans and flops back. “Why the fuck does it have to be me?” 

“You know why, don’t be a shit.” Lip snarks and Ian wonders if he’d rather do it. 

Of course, it’s not Lip’s fault that Ian ended up presenting as an alpha and he a beta. It’s not Lip’s fault that their pack has a strict rule about who can take over as leader. “Yeah, yeah.” He glares up at the ceiling. And then a thought catches him. “Shit. I dropped my phone.” 

“What do you mean? Where?” Lip looks down to the floor. 

“In the middle of the fucking forest, dude.” Ian makes a pained noise in the back of his throat. “Oh Gods, I’m never finding it now.” 

“Shoulda waited until you got back home before you shifted.” Lip, needing to be a smart ass, says. 

“I couldn’t. Almost shifted in front of Mickey, barely made it outta there.” He sighs. “I fucking hate everything about today.” 

“Hey at least you got to see your boyfriend.” Lip offers and sits down next to him, cigarette almost magically appearing between his lips. 

As the lighter flicks, Ian glares up at him. He doesn’t bother sitting, opting to continue laying back. “He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“No. You’re too much of a pussy to do anything.” 

“I am doing something. I’m getting to know him.” He leans up and snatches the thing from his mouth, taking a drag of his own. 

“Fuck,” Lip hisses when his cigarette disappears. He grabs it out of Ian’s hand before he can take a second. “You’re being stupid and pussy footing around the thing. You’re gonna need a mate anyway. You know the council gets touchy about the alpha being unattached.” 

“It’s not like I can produce an heir anyway.” He argues even though he knows Lip isn’t the one making the rules. 

“No. Doesn’t matter though. They want you to be mated. So you’re gonna have to say something soon. Especially if Frank kicks it.” 

“I’m gonna keep on with my plan until something major happens. I don’t want to pressure him. It’s not like we’re in a rush. I’m only twenty-five.” He declares. 

Lip rolls his eyes, “Whatever. I don’t even give a shit anymore.” 

Ian knows he definitely does give a shit. 

After lunch Kev comes to collect him from the house so they can gather with the rest of the council members. In the meeting hall, Ian sits at the head of the table. Kev sits to his left and he meets the eyes of each individual in front of him. Kev, Pete, Huma, Gabriella, and Johnny sit around the table staring right back at him. 

“I don’t know much about Frank’s condition.” Ian begins, opening the conversation. 

“What about your condition?” Huma retorts. 

“What are you asking?” He questions. 

“Are you prepared to take over should your father die?” She clarifies. 

“I’ve been prepared for years. You all are aware of that. I’ve studied with each of you.” Ian feels agitated, frowning at her. 

“We know it will be a lot of new responsibility to take on, Ian. Despite having spent time with us and learning the basic skills you need, we worry it might be too much too soon.” Pete explains. 

“There’s not shit we can do about that, though, if Frank’s dead tomorrow. What the fuck are you even asking? For real this time.” 

“We can have someone else step in as interim alpha for a few weeks if you need. There are many things you’ll need to adjust to. We’re asking if you feel you need that kind of support.” Gabriella finally says after a moment of silence. 

“Who? The only other alpha in the pack is Victor and he’s sure as fuck not cut out for this.” Ian snaps. 

The room remains silent and Ian realizes they don’t actually have a specific plan as to who would cover for him, they’re just trying to make it easier on him. He sighs, deflating a little. Despite how annoying they all can be, he knows they always have both his and the entire pack’s best interests at heart. 

“Ian, we just want you to know that you don’t have to do it all alone.” Johnny tells him, voicing what he’s already realized. 

“I know. I just thought I’d have more time.” He says quietly, feeling dejected already. 

“We’re not sure if he’s actually going to die in the next few days. There’s no need for us to get worked up over a what if.” Kev pats Ian on the shoulder. “Let’s just wait until the doctors know more about his condition and we’ll figure everything out from there. For now, try to get some rest. You look like a fresh changeling.” He teases and the air lightens. 

He scoffs good naturedly, “Fuck off.” 

Despite the meeting part of their gathering being over, they all stay in the hall for several more minutes. Instead of talking about official business, Ian is brought up to speed on all the pack gossip. He learns that Jennifer is in the middle of a pregnancy scare. Ian’s not sure how someone can be in the middle of one. Shouldn’t a simple pregnancy test take care of that? Luis is fucking Roman—something that causes everyone to let out a relieved sigh because Gods they couldn’t take a second more of their obvious pining. Wanda is considering retiring. Bree is two seconds from failing out of college. Apparently she’s too distracted by the pack despite living on campus for nearly nine months out of the year. Gabriella suggests it might be a specific pack member who’s distracting her, but no one seems to know. And Evelyn is rumored to be preparing to propose to her boyfriend Arthur. 

By the end of the hour, Ian is collapsing onto the couch feeling much better about the whole thing than he had before. He fills in Fiona who hovers over him until he says something. But then Debbie comes through the door and announces that she’s pretty sure Frank will pull through even though the doctors haven’t said yet. Ian doesn’t get his hopes up. At every turn, Frank has used every chance to make their lives a living hell. He’ll see in a few days if Debbie still believes that shit. 

• - 

The next morning Ian hovers awkwardly between the trees. He’s just close enough to the cabin that he can make out the beginnings of the clearing it sits in. But he feels embarrassed by his behavior yesterday and doesn’t know how Mickey will react to seeing him. He bites the inside of his cheek and decides to just get on with it already. This hovering is even more embarrassing. 

He walks until he can see Mickey's eyes as they flick towards him and then back to his canvas. Since he’s not being immediately told to fuck off, Ian chances reclaiming his spot. He sees that the canvas is in fact not strawberries. It’s not anything like his usual work. It’s… Ian? 

Ian tilts his head and leans forward over the rail. He squints at the scene in front of him. It’s the porch, but it’s shrouded in moonlight rather than the vibrant morning sun. Mickey is sitting on his stool as he is now with his back facing the viewer, the easel in front of him too shadowed to make out what it’s supposed to be. But there on the floor next to him is an animal. A wolf. Ian’s wolf. 

He’s suddenly very aware of the silence between them, the songs of birds in the trees, leaves and branches swaying, and Ian’s own heart loud in his ears. He doesn't know what this means. He continues to breathe as normally as possible. He doesn’t want to start panting here and give himself away. He’s certain Mickey has no fucking clue he and the wolf are the same. 

So, he leans back and turns to Mickey with an easy smile. “I didn’t know you have a dog.” 

Mickey scratches his nose, smearing some of that auburn color over it that he’d been using for his fur. “Don’t.” He replies after glancing at Ian quickly. 

He doesn’t push. Mostly because he partly knows the answer anyway. It’s not like he needs to ask oh, whose dog is that then? Because it’s not a dog and it’s him. He would like to know why Mickey is painting him. So, “Is this that brain worm you had yesterday?” He asks. 

Mickey shifts, placing his brush into the cup of water he keeps in the cup holder and rinsing it off. “Yeah.”

“It’s–” He stops himself before he can say anything suspiciously complimentary. He doesn’t know how to compliment the painting subject without giving anything away. “Why don’t you sell stuff like this? You’re really good at it. It’s not like people wouldn’t buy it.” 

Mickey finishes squeezing the water of the bristles with a paper towel and sets it down on the ledge. “I don’t make this stuff to sell it.” 

Ian’s confused. “Why do you make it then?” 

Mickey scoffs and looks at him, patience gone. “Have you never had a fucking hobby, man? I can’t do shit just because I like it?” 

Ian’s eyes widen and he holds up his hands, “My bad. I wasn’t… I mean, you obviously don’t have to sell it if you don’t want to. It’s just good. I didn’t know if you thought you were shit at it or something.” 

“Whatever.” He shakes his head and stands up, moving towards the door. 

Ian tries to act quick, “Wait, Mickey, I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to offend you or–” 

“Ian, shut the fuck up.” Mickey snaps at him and Ian realizes it’s the first time he’s said his name. It warms something up in him so he really does stop talking. Normally he probably wouldn’t. “I’m just running to get something. Stand there for a second and chill the fuck out.” 

Ian nods dutifully and remains where his feet are planted as Mickey opens his glass door before walking in. He leaves the door open and Ian leans around a little to catch a glimpse of the inside. He can’t really see anything. But he can smell . Ian hasn’t thought much about Mickey’s scent from that first night lately. While his senses remain enhanced as a human, they’re not nearly as strong and he only catches the occasional whiff when the wind really picks up. But Gods, Mickey’s house smells like him. Ian’s mouth is nearly watering when the man comes back out. 

Ian rocks back and nearly misses the phone in Mickey’s hand as the smell dissipates. “Found this.” Mickey holds it out to him. 

Oh. Oh shit. It’s his phone. Oh fucking fuck. Oh holy hell. He reaches out and takes it with hesitant hands. “Uh. Thanks.” He mumbles and his eyes are everywhere but Mickey right now. 

“Yeah. You seemed pretty fucked up yesterday. Not surprised you dropped it with how fast you bolted. Looked like you were gonna hurl.” Mickey walks back to his stool and resumes his painting as if this is just another ordinary morning. 

Ian takes a shaky breath and slides the phone into his pocket, “Thank you. I thought I was gonna have to buy a new one.” He says honestly. 

“S’no problem. Charged it for ya last night too. Figured you might want it actually working if you got kidnapped on your way home today.” He smirks at Ian over his shoulder. 

Ian walks back to lean heavily against the rail and watch Mickey work. “No one’s gonna kidnap me.” He snorts. And not only is it kind of ridiculous to think a kidnapper would be this far out in the woods, but Ian’s also about to become head alpha of one of the largest packs out here. Not that Mickey knows that part, obviously. 

“Maybe, maybe not.” He puts his brush down to look at Ian intensely, as if he’s trying to tell him something important. “You don’t know what’s out in these woods.” 

Ian nearly laughs. Because yes he does. He is out in these woods. His family. His friends. Everyone he’s grown up with and everyone who is growing up around him. Instead, he tries to fight back a smirk, “I’m a big boy, Mickey. Thanks for your concern though. I’ll keep my phone on me and promise to call for help if it’ll make you feel better.” 

Mickey huffs with an eye roll and turns away. Ian indulges in watching Mickey finish up the details of the tree line and the railing he’s currently on. Then he realizes that the painting is nearly done. Which isn’t necessarily surprising seeing as it usually takes him about two days to finish things. And he’d seen how fast he worked on the full moon. But that would mean he’s been working on it since yesterday. Ian inhales sharply at the thought. Mickey turns to look at him, “You good?” 

Ian looks at him. Really, really looks at him. His skin is the milky white he’d predicted. His hair is dark but not nearly as black as it had seemed. And his eyes are so much more striking with the sun shining. He’s perfect. Ian can’t help but glance down at the mouthwatering expanse of skin on his neck. His t-shirt collar is worn and exposes his collarbones. Ian wants to taste them. He indulges himself for just a moment with the image of sinking his teeth into Mickey’s neck and claiming him for the world to see. Not turning him, no of course not. Just claiming. Just leaving his permanent mark. Mating him. 

He takes a deep breath through his mouth to calm down, “Yeah.” 

Mickey eyes him suspiciously. He goes to look away but at the last second a flicker of concern passes his features and he asks, “Did someone, uh…” He trails off and shifts uncomfortably. 

Ian knows what he’s asking. “No. Not… yet, anyway.” Mickey’s silence is at once calming and pressing. So he goes on. “It’s my dad. He’s a real piece of shit.” He laughs but it’s not funny. It’s never been funny. “Honestly, I fucking wish he had dropped dead years ago. But I gotta… take over his shit when he does finally. And I’d rather not right now.” 

“What, like a family business?” Mickey asks and scratches at his eyebrow. 

Ian smiles, “Yeah, something like that.”

Mickey clearly wants to ask more about the business thing but he doesn’t. “D’you think he’s gonna die?” 

Ian shrugs, “No one knows right now. He’s an alcoholic—been one my entire life—and the Gods know his liver is fucked. It’s just a matter of time before he croaks. Honestly, he’s lucky he’s made it this long. Or, really, I’m lucky. I’m sure as shit not ready to do his job.” 

Mickey purses his lips thoughtfully. “But if he’s an alcoholic then he’s probably been doing a shit job anyway. You don’t really have a lotta expectations to live up to.” 

Ian hums, “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” He murmurs. “Wouldn’t matter either way. There’s a good group of people around to help me.” 

“S’good.” He says quietly. 

“Do you feel better now that you’ve painted this?” Ian switches direction, motioning to the picture.

Mickey presses his lips together as he regards it. “Dunno. I guess. It’s…” He leans in with furrowed eyebrows, “not right.” He frowns at it. 

“What do you mean?” Ian leans closer as if he could possibly see whatever it is that Mickey sees. “It looks ri–good to me.” He barely catches himself on the right. Not that he would really know what they looked like from this angle. 

Mickey doesn’t seem to catch Ian’s near miss. He shakes his head and the fingers of his left hand hover over Ian’s fur. “No, that’s not the right fucking color.” He declares in dismay. 

“What?” Ian chuckles because he just can’t help it. He leans in even closer but can’t get as close as Mickey with the damn rail in his way. “What’re you talking about?” 

Mickey groans and flings himself backwards, crossing his arms and glaring at Ian’s wolf as if it’s his fault Mickey doesn’t think the color is right. From Ian’s vantage point—which, granted, is a bit farther than Mickey’s—it looks right. “It’s not right and I’m gonna fucking–shoot it or something, fuck man.”

Ian jumps back at the threat. He stares at Mickey wildly. “What, the w–dog?” 

Mickey looks at him in disgust, “No, you fuck. The fucking canvas.” 

Ian breathes in relief. “Alright, well don’t do that. It looks good. At least let me have it if you’re gonna waste it like that.” 

Mickey leans back in to look closely. “M’gonna have to start all over.” He decides. 

“What?” Ian scoffs and basically stomps up the stairs to get as close as Mickey is to his painted fur. Okay. Now that he’s this close, he can see what Mickey’s upset about. It’s the right color overall, but the distinct red shift he has when the light hits just right is missing. Which no one would fucking know if they weren’t literally inches away. “Mickey.” He deadpans and waits until the other man meets his eyes. “You’re being fucking stupid, it looks great.” 

“You don’t even know.” Mickey argues and leans away. 

I know better than you do, he doesn’t say. Instead he sighs and leans over to the little plastic container that holds the paints. He bites his lip in concentration, eyes hopping over each bottle until he finds what he’s looking for. Ian grabs the warm red and presses it into Mickey’s hand just as he goes to snatch it from him in irritation. “Here.” 

Mickey looks down at it. “What?” 

“It’s what’s missing.” Mickey doesn’t look convinced. “I’d fucking show you but I don’t wanna mess your shit up. I’m crap at this kinda stuff.” He shakes his head at the memories of painful art classes throughout his school years. “It’s, uh, highlights I think you call it.” He gestures to the places his fur would be hit the most by the light. “Just right there, then you’re fine.” 

Mickey’s eyebrows furrow as he glances between Ian’s hand and the bottle he’s holding. He licks his lips and pops the cap. With just the tipping of the bottle, he lets a dollop of the color fall onto his skin. Ian watches in fascination as he smooths it evenly over the back of his hand. He glances once again between the paint and the canvas. Then the tension in his body seems to relax. “You’re right.” He’s totally disbelieving. 

Ian scowls at him, “Don’t act like it’s a fucking miracle.” He grumbles. 

Mickey tosses him an annoyed glare and moves to correct his painting. He elbows Ian out of the way in which he goes dutifully to hover where he’s pictured sleeping on the canvas. “How’d you even know?” He asks quietly around the butt of the brush clenched between his teeth. 

Damn. He probably should’ve thought of how to explain himself before he started speaking. “Uh, the color of its fur. It’s like a mix between brown and red. So it’d make sense for it to reflect the red in the light.”  

Mickey nods almost as if it’s an afterthought. He fixes the painting in less than two minutes and is satisfied when he cleans up. He does turn a suspicious look onto Ian after he’s done. “You spend a lot of time looking at art?” 

Ian forces a laugh, “No, I just have eyes and know how light works.” 

Which apparently makes sense to Mickey—thank the Gods—because he drops it. “Alright.” He nods at it, picks it up carefully by the back, and goes to take it inside. 

“Wait!” Ian stops him. He turns and waits. “I… what’re you gonna do with it?” 

“I don’t know? Hang it up, store it in the guest room? Whatever I want’s what I’m gonna do with it.” Mickey states and finishes his trek into the house. 

Ian frowns at the open door and waits until he returns. He hates that he won’t be able to see the painting again. Well. He will eventually. Just not now. When Mickey comes back out, he closes the door but hovers in front of it with his arms crossed. “Uh… guess I’ll just–” Ian shuffles awkwardly toward the stairs. 

Mickey brings his right thumb up to bite the nail. He watches as Ian walks down and onto the grass. “I’m gonna try the strawberries tomorrow.” He tells him just as Ian is about to wilt in disappointment. 

“Oh?” Ian perks up. 

“Yeah. It was a good idea.” 

He smirks, proud of himself, “Of course it was.” 

Mickey scoffs and flips him off, “Get the fuck outta here.” 

“I’ll see you and your strawberries tomorrow!” Ian cajoles and nearly skips away. 

• - 

Something… happens after that morning. Mickey actually speaks with him. He opens up slowly and then all at once. Ian imagines Mickey as a block of ice. It feels like forever for it to start melting, for the first condensation and then droplets to appear. But once it’s started it can’t stop and suddenly you’re left with a puddle of water. 

The morning immediately after, Ian anticipates standing in his spot and watching silently as Mickey paints his strawberries. And that’s exactly what happens. Except now Mickey’s added a mug of coffee to the mix. When Ian shows up, he stands and asks how he likes his coffee. Ian takes a moment to feel confused but smiles and says with just a little cream, no sugar. Then Mickey disappears into his house for a moment before presenting Ian with a mug of lightened coffee. 

Ian takes it and sips happily despite the warmth of the sun. It should probably be unbearable to have a hot drink in the middle of summer. But, rather than overheating, Ian feels pleasantly warm and satisfied. He likes that Mickey made him coffee. Or, really, his wolf likes it. His wolf likes it an awful lot. 

The next day, Ian returns to find a mug already waiting for him on the ledge of the rail he leans on. He thanks Mickey and then wordlessly watches as he completes his painting. When he’s done, he stands, takes the mug from Ian’s hands, and bids him goodbye. 

It goes like that for a couple more days before Mickey is melting. Ian has come to expect his coffee by the fifth day. He thanks Mickey, as he’s done every day, and slips into a comfortable silence where he gets to watch Mickey’s pale hands make careful work of details. 

He doesn’t look up. He barely moves as he dips his brush into the color pooled on the palette. There’s nothing out of the ordinary when he asks, “What do you do for work?” 

Ian startles and nearly spits his coffee out. “Huh?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Mickey does turn to look at him then, “Work? You know I do this.” He gestures vaguely to his easel, “What do you do?” 

Ian doesn’t know how to answer that. Because there isn’t exactly an answer. Frank, luckily for all of them (and by all of them he of course means just Ian), managed to recover and has since been released from the hospital. However, it’s become obvious to both him and the council that he’ll be taking over soon and he needs to be more comfortable with that. So, right now his job is slowly taking on the responsibilities that will one day become his job. And prior to that he hadn’t had a job. Unless you count fucking around with his siblings all day. 

“Family business stuff.” He answers. “It’s boring.” 

“Yeah, I fucking got that. But what? What’s your family’s business?” 

Nothing. Nothing because the family business is keeping the pack together. It’s protecting their community and taking care of the needs of the children or elderly. It’s also the boring bureaucratic shit like taking care of bills and making sure there’s enough money saved in case of emergency and delegating people to take care of random interpersonal issues. It’s blue collar work like fixing whatever shit someone’s managed to break in their house. It’s manual labor like landscaping. It’s everything.  And absolutely nothing at all. 

“I dunno.” Ian’s mouth pulls into a tight line when Mickey looks unimpressed. “We do a lotta shit, alright?” 

“Fine. What do you do specifically then?” Mickey twists so he can focus back on his canvas. He’s starting something new today and there’s a vase with a bouquet of flowers that definitely didn’t come from Mickey’s garden. Which leaves him wondering if someone else got him those flowers. Which makes his blood boil so he had to stop thinking about it a few minutes ago. 

“Everything.” Ian laughs as he can finally give a truthful answer. “My dad’s fine but won’t be for long. So I’ve been working with the cou–higher ups to make sure I’m confident in what I’ll have to do. I just kinda run around all day to pick up his slack right now.” 

Mickey grunts, “You’re really fucking bad at answering questions.” Ian frowns at the back of his head. “You didn’t tell me shit. What do you do all day, Ian? Running around and picking up your old man’s slack isn’t a job.” 

He takes a deep breath as his eyes narrow. He feels a flutter of irritation at Mickey’s pushing. “I don’t do any more than that.” He asserts. 

Mickey is silent and Ian can see the tension he’s holding in his shoulders and back. After a minute, he shrugs, “Fine. Where’re you from?” 

“Oh. Here. Born and raised.” 

“Leavenworth?” Mickey clarifies and bites down on his brush as he rummages through his container of paints. 

“Yeah.” More or less. “What about you?” He asks, nearly giddy at the opportunity to learn something. 

“Way fucking far.” Mickey replies through gritted teeth, popping the cap open and drawing some yellow out. “Chicago.” 

Ian balks and feels his spine straighten. His eyebrows knit together as he stares in disbelief at Mickey’s back. “Chicago? Why the fuck are you all the way out here?” 

Mickey drops his bottle back where it belongs, drops his container on the ground, and snatches the brush from his teeth. Ian watches as he tries very hard to seem relaxed. There’s something here, he thinks and wonders if he’ll really hear it this morning. “Got a crazy dad.” Ian doesn’t say anything to that. It doesn’t explain anything. Mickey sighs, “Didn’t like… shit about me. Hated I was always doing shit like this. Hated I wasn’t helping him out with the family business. ” He spits the words with disgust, “Hated I was too nice. Especially fucking hated I was taking it up the ass from some kid down the street.” Ian chokes on the mouthful of coffee he’d tried to swallow. Mickey turns to smile bitterly. “Tried to kill me after that one. Got a fucking bus ticket to wherever was the furthest place I could go after that.” 

Ian, after embarrassing himself by coughing until his eyes watered, sets his cup down and leans his forearms against the railing. “You took a bus from Chicago to Washington?” 

Mickey scratches his eyebrow, “Yeah. I mean, the fuck else was I supposed to do? Die?” He scoffs. “I’d already let Terry make my life a living hell. I wasn’t gonna let him actually send my ass there too.” 

“Why out here? In the middle of nowhere?” 

“S’nice. No one bothers me out here…” He trails off and narrows his eyes, “Except psychotic ginger assholes, apparently.” Ian grins. “I ain’t gotta worry about people and making nice or some stupid shit. Plus, there’s just something about being out here. When I first moved, it was like–” He cuts himself off with a scowl, “Never mind. Shit’s embarrassing.” 

Ian makes a noise of protest, “No way! You’ve already started. Just tell me.” He flutters his eyelashes and hopes he looks convincing, “ Please? ” 

Mickey glares but it’s half hearted at best. “Don’t make fun’a me.” Ian raises his hand and places his other on his heart in a promise. “Whatever. It just felt right, or some gay shit like that. Like I’d almost found what I was looking for.” 

Ian’s nostrils flare with the wind and the spicy scent of his mate enters his mind, wiping most of the coherent thoughts he’d had. He leans in closer, eyes immediately falling to where his throat meets his shoulder. Eyes immediately falling to where he’d place his mating claim when the time came. He licks his lips unintentionally and presses himself so firm against the rail it’s nearly painful. 

“The fuck’re you doing, Ian?” Mickey snaps, leaning away and effectively breaking Ian from his creepy trance. 

He presses his lips together and leans away himself. “Fuck. Sorry.” His voice is too low and rough to be appropriate. It’s not even that close to the full moon. He freezes. Oh fuck. Yes it is. It’s almost the full moon. He’s got less than a week left. Usually it’s not a big deal. He’s never around humans anymore, unless he’s going to the grocery store and even that’s infrequent enough as is. But the moon makes him restless. As it becomes fuller, brighter, it loosens his inhibitions and in a few days most thoughts of right and wrong will be all but gone. He looks out at the trees and wonders if he can fight some of it back by shifting tonight. He doesn’t want to freak Mickey out and he won’t be able to keep coming back if he’s going to lose his fucking head. 

“You alright?” Mickey asks, voice softer with concern now—concern for Ian, not himself. 

He breathes through his mouth, “Yeah. I’m good. Just… the days have really slipped by, huh?” Ian smiles tightly, meeting Mickey’s eyes for just a moment before moving away again. 

“What, d’you got somewhere to be or something?” Mickey asks and his body tilts towards him. 

Ian swallows, glancing at Mickey’s neck again before nearly breaking his own with how quickly he snaps his head away. “Not really.” 

“Are you…” He trails off and Ian has no idea what he could even be wanting to ask. “Are you getting sick or something?” He shakes his head no. “You’re being fucking weird.” Mickey tells him as if he doesn’t know. 

Ian scoffs at him, “Fuck off. Maybe that’s just how I am.” 

Mickey chuckles, “Yeah, alright. Whatever.” He returns to his work and Ian feels like he can breathe a little easier now that they aren’t facing each other. He doesn’t move back to where he was though. The wind may have stopped, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. “You come from a big family?” Mickey asks. 

“Uh… I guess. I have five siblings. I think that counts as big.” Ian crosses his arms. 

“Shit.” Mickey glances at him over his shoulder, “Big ass family. Did your parents do anything except fuck?” 

He laughs, “Fought a lot too.” 

“Mm,” Mickey seems to be getting into his groove and Ian stays silent to let him focus. They don’t usually speak anyway. This has been a treat. Eventually, Mickey stands up and cracks his knuckles. He turns to collect Ian’s mug and his own before he heads for his door. 

“I’ll head back. See you tomorrow.” Ian thinks about Mickey and their conversation on his way home. It makes him antsy for what tomorrow might be like. 

The next morning he learns more about Mickey. He takes his mug and is a little awkward as he tries to decide between speaking or not. But Mickey helps him out. “So are you the oldest?” He asks. 

Ian leans, “No. Right in the middle. Two older siblings, three younger.” 

“What?” Mickey shoots him a strange look. “Why’re you the one taking over for your dad?” 

“It’s hard to explain.” He replies honestly. Ian watches the way Mickey’s green t-shirt stretches over his shoulder blades as he paints. He watches with rapt fascination the tension in his right forearm when he moves with obsessive precision. “I just am, I guess. No one else can really do it.” 

“Why, though? The fuck’s so special about you?” 

He snorts, “Nothing that matters. It’s just the way we do things.”

Mickey shakes his head and taps out the water from his bristles. “That’s fucking stupid.” 

“Thanks.” Ian smirks at his profile when he sends him a dirty look from the corner of his eye. “Do you have a big family?” 

Mickey pauses, “I don’t talk to my family anymore.” 

“Did you, then?” 

“Yeah. Four siblings, two other half’s. Fuck ton of cousins.” He grimaces, “Milkoviches are like cockroaches.” 

Ian hums, “Where were you in that lineup?” 

“What, like age?” He clarifies with a glance. Ian nods. “Second youngest. My sister’s the only younger sibling I got.” 

“Huh.” Ian looks up at the sky. It’s clear today. It’s going to be a nice night. He thinks he’ll go for a run tonight, burn off some steam. “Do you prefer it out here over the city?” 

Mickey shrugs, “Guess so. I don’t really give a shit s’long as I got a roof over my head and food to eat.” 

Ian looks at him. He leans against the rail, crossing his forearms over the ledge and dropping his chin. “Do you worry about shit like that out here?” 

“No. That’s why I’m still here.” 

“Oh. Did you worry about that when you were in Chicago?”

“I was dirt fucking poor. Had to do a lot of nasty shit to stay alive.” Mickey states bluntly and stops what he’s doing so he can stare, almost daring Ian to say something disparaging. “I like it out here because I don’t have to run drugs for my dad. If I didn’t have to do that, maybe I’d like Chicago more. Who fucking knows?” 

“What’s your favorite food?” Ian asks with an easy smile. 

He looks thrown off but answers anyway, “Steak. I can fuck up some steak any day.” 

Ian chuckles, “Me too. You don’t like it well done, do you?” He asks shrewdly. 

Mickey scowls and scoffs, “You think I’m a fucking pussy? Medium rare always.” 

“Mm, good.” He nods and gives Mickey an approving once over, “That’s the only way to eat it.” 

“If anyone’d eat a well done steak, it’d be you.” He grumbles. 

Ian inhales sharply, “What? You think I would?” 

“Course. You’ve got that stupid health nut vibe.” 

He laughs and looks out into the woods. Gods, he doesn’t think he’s ever had his steak cooked past rare. Not to mention all the actually rare meat he eats on full moons. And the occasional hunt if he gets hungry on a run. “Thanks for that.” 

Mickey smirks at him. He turns to focus more intently on the job he has at hand. Ian doesn’t mind. He likes watching Mickey work. Ian compliments him not long into their silence (by not long, he means maybe two minutes), “Wow.” He murmurs without even meaning to. 

Mickey glances at him, “What?” 

“It’s just crazy how that one little detail changed the whole thing.” He says stupidly and gestures to the barely-visible white flecks of paint. 

Mickey huffs in amusement, “Whatever.” But Ian can see the way the pleased smile upturns the corner of his mouth. 

• - 

The next three days pass in a haze of Mickey, council bullshit, and growing malaise. In the mix of it all, his wolf stalks irritably beneath his skin, threatening with every new second he spends with Mickey to take over and just claim him already. Ian knows that it’s nearing dangerous for him to continue hanging around Mickey. As the moon becomes rounder and brighter and larger, his wolf fights him every step of the way. Every step he takes towards Mickey without the intent to mate him, every step he takes away from Mickey after not mating with him, every step he takes in between while he’s not with Mickey. Every step is a fight. 

The morning before the full moon, Ian finds himself sitting on one of Mickey’s porch steps with his hands cradling the mug of coffee he’s been given. He’s staring up at the sky and can still make out the source of his unease disappearing into the horizon. Mickey isn’t painting this morning. Which is new and a little unnerving as well. Ian doesn’t like that the routine they’ve had up until now is broken. 

He doesn’t complain too much (or at all) though because Mickey is sitting next to him, their arms brushing when one moves to lift a cup or lean back. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mickey eying him curiously. “You alright?” Ian glances at him and smiles as reassuringly as he can. He’s not sure it works. “You’ve been getting… off-er these last couple days.” His eyes narrow like he’s trying to work Ian out. “If you’re sick you don’t have to come out here, you know.” 

He smiles, this time it’s warm and fond. “I know. I’m not sick. At least, not bad anyway. I’m probably coming down with something but it’s nothing serious.” 

Mickey sighs as if he’s fed up with Ian. “Whatever man. Be fucking weird, I don’t care.” 

He chuckles and nudges Mickey with his shoulder, “How’d you get into painting?” Mickey grimaces. “I’ve been wondering that for a minute. You don’t seem… I dunno.” 

“What?” His face has hardened and he looks defensive now. “I don’t seem what?”

“Just, you don’t seem the hermit painter type, is all. I mean, you have fuck you up tattooed across your knuckles, Mickey. That doesn’t really scream I’m a scarily talented professional artist .” Ian doesn’t mean it in a rude way. But he thinks Mickey is offended regardless. 

But then he glances down at his hands and flexes his fingers with a frown. “I didn’t want em.” 

“No?” 

“Course not.” He scowls. “I never wanted to get involved in my dad’s shit. He was—is—the worst fucking person I’ve ever met. Fucking evil.” 

Ian’s nostrils flare with the bitterly sour smell Mickey emits. “He made you get them?” 

“Yeah. He thought I was a pussy. Said I looked too fucking soft to be a Milkovich and he was embarrassed of me, of people knowing I was his kid. So he said I had to get em. I had to show people, prove to them that I was worthy of the name.” He thumbs his nose. 

Ian wants so badly to grab the hand away from his face and hold it. He wants to comfort him and drag him into his chest until he smells normal. Until he smells like Ian. Like a Gallagher. Fuck being a Milkovich, he never has to be one again. Not now. Not now that he’s Ian’s. He feels like he should share something with Mickey. Mickey’s bared a vulnerable part of himself, it’s only fair that Ian does the same. Not–not the most vulnerable, not that he’s a werewolf. But his mom. He wants to tell Mickey about his mom. He never wants to talk about her—not even to people who know what she was like, not even to his family. But he wants to tell Mickey. And he realizes it’s not just because he feels the need to even the score. 

Before he gets the chance—and he does genuinely feel disappointed about it—Mickey continues. “My dad never woulda gotten me into art. Never woulda let me even entertain it. And I’m real lucky my mom was the one who saw the note and not him.” He scratches his eyebrow. “I was in like fourth grade maybe? I had an art teacher who saw my potential, or whatever flowery bullshit he said. We were painting with watercolors that week and he said mine was the best he’d seen in his entire career. It looked like shit, I know that now.” He laughs at himself. “But for a ten year old, it probably did look good to him. So he wrote a note and said I should show my parents. He wanted me to keep at it. He said he could see a future in art for me. 

“I got home and luckily it was just my mom there. She read the note and immediately fucking took to it. I remember she had just kinda nodded at me and then left the house. She came back like ten minutes later with a shit ton of white construction paper and those cheap little watercolor palettes you get for kids.” Mickey’s smile and tone are wistful but his scent gives him away. He’s sad. Talking about this makes him sad. Ian longs to touch him. “I was always fucking painting after that. Mom helped me keep it a secret from Terry. She’d hide it under the floorboards of my room right under my bed. After she died, he found out. I hadn’t realized how well she knew his schedule and how I didn't know shit. Two days after her funeral he caught me on my floor painting the flowers me and Mandy laid on her grave.”

He sniffs quietly and if it weren’t for being who he is Ian wouldn’t have heard it. “Called me a fucking faggot and threw all my shit away. It was a week later that he came home and did these.” Ian looks down at the tattoos on his fingers. 

Ian’s shit at comforting. Not like this anyway. He’s not actually all that bad at it with his pack, with his siblings. Werewolves are a very tactile group. He’s used to using touches, hugs, cuddles, whatever to bring comfort to those who smell like Mickey does now. He never has the words though. He’s never really needed them. 

So instead he shares his own shit and hopes the solidarity is enough. “My mom died last year. On my birthday actually.” He huffs, not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob or somehow both. “She, uh, was fucking insane. Clinically, we think. She was around a lot when I was a kid. She was around until she had Liam, actually, my youngest sibling, and then she dipped. She’d disappear for months at a time. I think the longest she was ever gone was over a year. She’d get messed up in shit she shouldn’t’ve been messed up in, higher than a fucking kite for who knows how many days on end, and then show up at the house like nothing had happened. Every time she’d come back saying how she missed us, how sorry she was that she had left and that she wanted to make things right. This time it would be different, she’d swear. 

“It was never different, though. One year on Thanksgiving she slit her wrists in the kitchen. I was the one who found her, bleeding out all over the fucking floor and crying about how bad she wanted to stop but she just didn’t know how.” He takes a deep breath and stares up at the sky again, setting his mug down on the stair next to him and leaning back on his hands. “She overdosed. On my fucking birthday. Right in the house while we were all outside. No one knows if it was on purpose or not. She had been on and off drugs for years. Liam’s whole fucking life, more than a decade at that point. It was…” He cocks his head, “it was both the worst day of my life and the best. I was so fucking grateful to be rid of her bullshit. She couldn’t torture us with her emotional rollercoaster anymore. But she was still my mom .” 

Ian bites the inside of his cheek and Mickey stays silent. “We were really close when I was young. I think the first ten years of my life she was the best. I think I was her favorite though so I’m probably biased. I was always her baby boy, no matter that she had two more sons after me. And my little sister, too. I don’t think she wanted more. I think my dad didn’t give a shit what she wanted and no one could really do anything about it so…” He shrugs and looks at Mickey who’s watching him intensely. “I still feel guilty. Maybe if I’d tried I could’ve gotten her to stay. Frank was always drunk, hot and cold with her just like she was with him. They were a good match that way. But no one really cared to try, especially not after the disappearance. I wonder if I coulda convinced her. She was a good mom for half my life, and then a shell of the person I remembered the second half. And the fact that I still feel relieved she’ll never show up again promising shit she’ll never do...” 

A silence stretches over them and the wolf prickles under his skin, desperate to switch and run. Not really from anything, definitely not from Mickey or even this conversation. Just to release all this energy that’s turned sour with the mood. 

“My dad…” Mickey’s eyebrows are furrowed when Ian looks at him. “No one can prove it, but I think he killed her. My mom. She, uh. She was found under a bridge. Overdose. But she was never—she didn’t do that shit.” His voice is hard and leaves no room for argument. Not that Ian would argue. “My dad sells drugs. Hard shit. And kept enough in the house that it woulda been too easy. I think she wanted to leave him. I’m not sure if she–if she woulda left me and Mandy with him or if she wanted us to come. But if she was planning, even just alone… he did it. I’m surprised he didn’t do worse. Beat her to death or somethin.” He looks at Ian. “She was a good mom. And I was just a fucking kid. Fucking. Fourteen. Couldn’t do shit for her. I know that I couldn’t’a stopped him even if I wanted to. But I feel like shit about it. Like I shoulda known and at least been able to do something.” 

Ian can’t stop it then. He reaches out and grasps Mickey’s wrist, squeezing gently. “It was never your job to take care of her. It was his and even if you knew, even if you called the fucking cops and he was caught and she survived and he went to jail. You’d feel guilty about some other shit, torture yourself with some other shit. Like that you hadn’t done anything sooner or he didn’t get a long enough sentence or maybe you trapped your mom with him. There’s a hundred fucking ways to find blame. And never once was it your job to shoulder that.” 

Mickey smirks at him and tugs his wrist back, but it doesn’t seem like he was unhappy or disgusted by Ian's touch. “There ya fucking go, Firecrotch.” 

Ian startles, eyes wide and jaw dropped, “Excuse me?” 

He laughs, “There ya go. If I shouldn’t feel responsible, you shouldn’t either, right?” 

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He hadn’t even registered what had preceded the Firecrotch. All he can think about is the fact that Mickey has thought about his pubes. “No. No, not that. What did you call me?” 

Mickey just laughs harder, “What? Firecrotch?” Ian stares at him in disbelief. “You telling me you aren’t?” 

He splutters, “I’m not telling you anything! You’re the one talking about my–my pubes, for fuck’s sake.” 

Mickey shrugs, “So you are. If it’s true, it doesn’t matter.” 

Ian looks up at the sky, “Oh Gods, give me strength.” He whispers pleadingly. 

Mickey shoves his shoulder, “Don’t be so fucking dramatic. S’just a nickname.” Ian gapes at him once again. “What? A term of endearment, then.” He laughs at whatever Ian’s face is doing now. 

“You’re such a–” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. 

Mickey stands after that and stretches. Ian’s eyes track the movement hungrily. His wolf is practically thrashing with need. Both sexual and primal in nature. To take what’s his. But also, to protect it. He looks away quickly before the other man can catch him in the shameful act. He doesn’t smell as distressed as he had for which Ian is grateful. As Ian continues to sit with his hands planted against the porch and shifts his focus to Mickey’s face which now stands over him, Mickey’s scent returns to its usual spicy aroma. 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes down at Ian, “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” Ian grins up at him. “Like, running your family business or some shit?” Ian continues grinning and shrugs. “Jesus fuck, it’s a fucking Wednesday. Go do something productive, contribute to society.” He waves Ian off. 

Ian sighs long suffering and stands with a grumpy look. “I do contribute to my society.” He grumbles and stoops down to pick up his mug. He passes it over to Mickey’s waiting hand. “Alright, fine. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

He shakes his head and waves him off once again. “Jesus Christ, you really don’t have anything better to do.” It’s said more to himself than Ian. 

He replies anyway, “Not really, no. Such is the easy life of a bachelor.” 

Mickey scoffs and Ian runs off before he can hear anything else. He does turn to jog backwards and part with a wave before disappearing into the trees. 

That evening before he goes up to his room, Lip stops him on his way out of the bathroom. He frowns at his brother, unintentionally mirroring his expression. “What?” 

“Are you going tomorrow morning?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Because it’s the full moon?” Lip looks imploringly at him, “Don’t be stupid, little brother. Just because he’s your mate doesn’t suddenly make him not human.” 

“It’s fine. It’s been fine. It was fine this morning.” He argues. 

“I’m sure you believe that. What was it like this morning, then? You weren’t feeling it? Your wolf wasn’t worse than normal?” Ian doesn’t respond. He looks over Lip’s shoulder, avoiding his eyes. “You’re also not normal, Ian. You’re a damn alpha for fuck’s sake. You’re the alpha, after Frank. You know that biologically just as much as cognitively. Do you really want to put him at risk?” 

“He’s not at risk!” Ian snaps, lip curling to bare his teeth in warning. 

Lip shakes his head, “I know you think that. I know you think just because he’s your mate you’re completely harmless.” Ian opens his mouth to respond that of course he’s harmless, his wolf has no ill intent towards Mickey, but Lip holds up his hand to stop him. “Harm isn’t just physical injury. Just because you don’t want to rip his fucking throat out doesn’t mean you can’t harm him. He still doesn’t know. He has no idea that you’re so volatile right now. He could push, say the wrong thing, and you turn. Obviously you’re not going to hurt him no matter what form you’re in. But what if you mate him? What if you claim him? What if you turn him?” 

He licks his lips. “I’ve been fine for days, Lip. I’ve been completely fucking fine. Sure I–I want to bury my fucking nose in his neck and scent the shit out of him. And Gods I want to touch him so badly. But I’m not—I wouldn’t touch him like that, do that to him. I’d never. Even as a wolf, I’m perfectly aware. I’m still me. And my wolf…” He tries to figure out how to explain it. “You don’t really get it. Not totally, anyway. My wolf, more than anything, more than it wants to make him mine, wants to protect him. Both of us know that forcing him into this is worse and would make him upset. That’s not what I’m doing. Not what I’m going to do. No matter what.” 

Lip doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t know–”

“Exactly, you don’t know. I get that Kev and Vee were different because they’re both werewolves. It’s not the same. But ask them if you have to. I would never do anything to hurt him. I’ll protect him—even if it’s from myself.” 

“I don’t want to see you get hurt. That’s it, Ian. I’m not trying to keep you from him or whatever.” 

“I know. But I need you to trust me. I need you to trust that I know myself well enough and that I care about him enough not to put myself into a bad situation.” 

He sighs and runs a hand over his face, “Fine dude. Do whatever you want.” 

Ian grins, “I was going to anyway.” He steps around Lip who snorts and flips him off. Ian returns in kind before closing his door and collapsing on the bed. He feels so exhausted. His body is humming in anticipation for tomorrow night’s change. Despite birther abilities to access and shift into their wolves whenever they want, the full moon still triggers a transformation just as it does with changelings. There are, of course, benefits to being a birther. The change is painless, the wolf and human are one, and control is maintained. Ian is his wolf and his wolf is Ian and it’s never more apparent than when he’s in wolf form. 

Unfortunately, the full moon drives the wolf a little crazy. And even if Ian were to shift every day and run for several hours, the full moon would still drive him crazy and force a change. Ian’s tried before. Not because he doesn’t like shifting on the full moon, it’s actually the best time for it because the whole pack is brought together and are one with each other. But he doesn’t like the incessant nature of needing to constantly go, go, go the whole night. He’d like to change back and get some restful sleep. The day after the moon is miserable because of how exhausted he is. 

That morning, Ian runs into the clearing where he finds Mickey at his easel again. His coffee is, as always, waiting for him. He finds himself especially thankful as the warmth settles his wolf. (It’s actually mostly the fact that Mickey made it for him and wants to do it for him and presents him with it consistently that settles the wolf.) He groans appreciatively into the mug as he takes his first sip. 

Mickey snorts at him, “It’s just a fucking cup of coffee.” He’s pink though and his scent has twisted in a way that Ian yearns to taste. 

“But it’s a cup of coffee you made for me.” He challenges. And then realizes that he’s said something horribly embarrassing. So he’s quick to change the subject. “What are you working on?” He asks as he leans over to see. There’s no object sitting on the table today. Instead, there’s colorful blobs that have yet to take shape into anything recognizable. 

Mickey flushes thoroughly at that. His cheeks are bright red and it’s spreading down his neck. Does it go across his chest, he wonders hungrily. “It’s fucking embarrassing s’what it is. I gotta finish it tonight or it’s going in the fucking trash.” 

Ian looks from the painting to Mickey’s face. Despite his obvious discomfort—whether from Ian seeing it or simply doing it, he doesn’t know—Mickey continues on as if he can’t stop. “Why do you have to finish it tonight?” 

Mickey grunts, “It’s my one day outta the month that I can paint whatever the fuck I need to. If it isn’t finished, it gets tossed. That’s the fucking rule.” 

Ian frowns. “Well, can’t I have it?” 

Mickey’s fingers tighten on his brush and he looks at Ian like he’s grown another head. “Why the fuck would you want a half-finished painting?” 

He shrugs, “I dunno. I’d hate for you to put all that work into it just to throw it away.” Then he hums thoughtfully, “Why don’t you just shelf it for the next day you can paint whatever you want?” 

Mickey’s eyes meet Ian’s for one more moment, something flashing in them, before he looks away. He seems to force himself to relax and turns away. “Because I never want to finish it by then.” 

He wants to ask. He wants to pry and figure out what the hell he’s talking about. Instead Ian switches his focus, “Well, then can I have it? If you don’t finish.” 

Mickey blows out a breath, “No. I don’t—they aren’t for sale.” At Ian’s curious noise, he clarifies, “No one else has ever even seen what I paint on the full moon. Consider yourself fucking lucky. I can’t sell them.” 

Ian huffs a little petulantly. “Well I’ve already seen it. Can’t you just make an exception?” 

“ No Ian, I fucking can’t. I just. It fucking.” He groans in frustration. “I can’t.” 

Ian pouts at him but Mickey doesn’t even bother to look at him. “Whatever.” He whispers and continues drinking. The pull of the moon becomes stronger as the sun rises which probably seems counterintuitive. But the moon is getting closer to rising. The day is drawing on. Ian’s wolf knows what is coming. 

He yearns to remain by Mickey’s side. Every time he feels more restless and considers going home, the anxiety spikes and he tries to settle back in to watching him. After a few minutes of waffling back and forth over his decision, he begins to walk around in a circle. It helps. Moving. It helps but Gods does he want to run. 

His circle starts small but eventually becomes wide and he can hear the sounds of annoyance Mickey makes. He finally snaps, “Will you stand still, for fuck’s sake? You’re making me fucking nauseous just looking at you.” 

Ian stops where he’s at. He’s near the trees, so far he almost wouldn’t be able to hear Mickey if he were human. He makes a beeline back to Mickey’s porch, “Sorry.” He mumbles, chastised. 

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” He asks, eying Ian. “You high?” 

Ian chokes on a surprised laugh, “What? Fuck no.” He shakes his head. “No. I used to smoke with my brother when I was younger but, uh. It doesn’t really agree with me.” 

“You definitely aren’t high on fucking weed man. I meant like coke or something.” 

“No, Mickey, I’m not on coke.” He deadpans with an unimpressed raised eyebrow. 

Mickey flips him off, “Fuck me for worrying bout you. My fucking bad.” 

And just like that his wolf is appeased. He bites his cheek to keep from grinning and asking something stupid like do you like me? He sighs and relaxes as much as he possibly can today. “Why don’t you use watercolors anymore?” He asks. 

Mickey doesn’t falter, “Haven’t since I moved out.”

“Oh?” 

“I’d paint with those shitty watercolors until I could actually afford something better. And the nice ones…” His eyebrows furrow, “I mean, I couldn’t afford em at first. So I switched to acrylic. By the time I started making more money, I preferred that and oil over the other shit. Plus.” Mickey licks his lips but doesn’t stop, “I couldn’t. I tried. I have a palette lying around somewhere in there.” He jerks his head towards the house. “But I felt like I was betraying Mom somehow. Like buying those better quality ones meant I was moving on. Forgetting her. So I couldn’t go back.” 

Ian swallows and once again longs to touch him. What he wouldn’t give to hold him. What he wouldn’t give to pet through his hair. What he wouldn’t give to kiss him. Instead he changes the subject because Mickey smells sad again. “Why do you paint objects?” He turns to look at Ian confused. “You painted that one of the dog. And now you’re doing this. So why do you only do objects?” 

“Oh that’s easy. Tourists are fucking dumb. They don’t know shit about art or technique or whatever. They just think that because it looks real and it’s random shit it must be valuable. So they’ll shell out a fuckton of dough. Doesn’t matter how much I charge. They eat it up.” 

Ian hums, “And that’s why you do what you do?” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“Like. Why it all looks so real.” 

“Oh. I guess. I always wanted to paint like this. I wanted to be able to make shit look as close to a picture as possible. For a long time I never even tried. I used to do more painting-like shit. I doubt you’d know it, but I really liked fauvism. Like, over the top shit. I figured if I made it look like a painting on purpose then I could never fail.” He purses his lips thoughtfully, “I wanted to try this though. I always thought it was the most difficult so if I ever figured it out, I’d be fucking unstoppable. The fact that it sells real well is just a bonus.” 

“I like it.” He declares with a smile, “I think it’s cool.” Then Ian waits a beat before saying, “I think you’re cool.” 

Mickey turns to frown at him. “Shut up.” He says with minimal heat. 

“I do! I mean it! You’re… I’ve never met someone like you.” 

Mickey looks a little offended now, “The fuck’s that mean?”

“Nothing bad! You’re just a hermit and you paint shit that belongs in a museum and you’re funny and I think your dad rivals my parents for worst people in the world. And.” He blinks. “You’re so.” His eyebrows furrow and he tries to stop embarrassing himself. “You’re so gorgeous. I’ve never met someone like you before.” 

Mickey stares at him so long that Ian has to look away. He begins to feel anxiety creep up. He thinks he’s said too much. He thinks he’s done too much. Gone too far. Pushed too hard. He’s afraid he’s going to lose his mate before he’s even gotten to love him properly. 

“You’re really not making fun of me.” He says breathlessly as if in disbelief. 

Ian’s attention snaps back to his face, “Of course I’m not. Why the fuck would I make fun of you?” 

Mickey shrugs and turns back to his paints, “Dunno. You could be a real fucking asshole for all I know.” 

He frowns, “I… you don’t really think I’m an asshole, do you?” 

“No, Ian.” He looks over his shoulder, “I don’t think you’re an asshole.” 

He wants to push but he doesn’t. Instead he allows them to fall into silence, rolling up and down on the balls of his feet. Mickey shoots him a couple dirty looks but he can’t stop. Finally, when probably an hour has passed and the sun is getting higher in the sky and Ian’s beginning to sweat, his wolf decides it’s alright to leave. He sighs and feels a little disappointed. He’s only mollified by the knowledge he’ll be back in a few hours to spend the night with Mickey. He hopes Mickey will be sitting out on the porch again. 

“I should get outta your hair.” He says with a tight smile. 

Mickey hums and doesn’t even look at him. Ian feels his chest tighten and not in a good way. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Mickey finally replies when he tears his eyes away. 

Ian’s not so sure about that. In fact. He’s sure that they won’t see each other tomorrow. He still nods and agrees that he’ll see him tomorrow. Mickey raises his brush in goodbye and then Ian sprints back home. 

The hours before the moon stretch on. The sting in his muscles becomes worse. Around eight, Fiona pulls him aside and asks, “You’re planning on going to your mate tonight, aren’t you?”

He’s confused. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

She shrugs, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I was just asking so we know whether to expect you on our run.” 

Ian bites his lip, “I don’t not want to run with you guys. I just. My wolf’s been so anxious to be with him. I wouldn’t be able to run with you even if I tried.” 

She squeezes his shoulder, “I know. You know me… I’m always worrying about you. I wanted to know if I should expect you or not. That way I wouldn’t stress out if I couldn’t find you.” 

He nods, “I know. I know I can’t… avoid running with you guys for much longer. Especially if Frank—” He cuts himself off and they share a look, “But for now, especially so early, I just need him.” 

Fiona smiles and rubs his back, “It’s okay, Sweetface. You don’t have to explain yourself. I know you’ll be back when we need you.” 

The wolf only gives him thirty minutes after that before he’s tearing off into the forest and shifting. Usually his mind is pleasantly blank. He zips between trees, opening his mouth to taste the fresh air. Running in his wolf form is a type of therapy. Of meditation. He always returns feeling a million times better. Any and all thoughts that plagued him prior seem to disappear with the moon. 

The moon hasn’t risen fully yet. The sun hasn’t set fully yet. He’s transformed too early for what Mickey would likely expect. But the wolf that’s prowled around for days on end won’t hear of another minute wasted. Not when it’s growing darker. And especially not when it knows that its mate is out there. 

There are too many thoughts tonight. Not fully formed thoughts. Nothing coherent to anything beyond a primal, animal brain. But Ian can make it out. Among the incessant mantra of mine, Ian also feels emotions swirling. Possessiveness, of course. There’s affection and desire and desperation and longing, though, as well. He and the wolf both yearn for Mickey. The wolf for its mate. Ian for the person he’s come to know beyond fate. 

He gets to the clearing just as the moon grows beyond the horizon and the sun begins to disappear. Mickey is sitting on his porch, almost as if Ian had never left him, and painting. He came from the other side, the garden side, tonight. He’s able to sneak up on Mickey that way. Not that he thinks he needs to sneak up on him. Or even that he should sneak up on him. 

As he approaches from behind, he can begin to make out what Mickey had started painting that morning. In his human brain, he registers that it’s almost the exact same thing he’d painted a couple weeks ago just up close. It’s Ian’s wolf sleeping next to Mickey’s stool. Only this time, Ian is the focus. The legs of the stool are all that stars in this picture. It’s just Ian, really. Ian and his reddish-brown fur and his green eyes open, peering up. Peering up at Mickey, no doubt. 

His wolf brain, however, can only think me and mine. Which isn’t exactly deep. 

So he inches closer to Mickey until he’s about to walk up the stairs. When he’s that close, Mickey turns to stare at him with wide, burning eyes. He looks spooked for a moment and so Ian stays still at the edge of the porch. Then he takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax, and goes, “Oh. You’re back.” 

He’s not sure if Mickey’s disappointed or not. But he doesn’t shoo him away, so he walks up and sits down, albeit a little closer than he had the month before. Mickey sighs and crosses his arms over his chest as he looks down at Ian. The movement exposes a long stripe of black paint he has up his forearm. Ian almost licks it off. But then he thinks it will taste bad so he’d better not. 

They’re at an impasse. Ian can’t say anything because he’s a wolf. Mickey isn’t saying anything because he’s scared or doesn’t want to or doesn’t trust Ian or who knows. So they’re silent. But Mickey doesn’t go to paint like he does when they usually fall into the quiet like this. He keeps watching Ian. 

“You can’t understand me.” Mickey says suddenly. It’s not a question. It’s not even a curious statement. No. It’s a matter of fact for him, apparently. Ian snorts. Or, he would snort if he could. Instead it sounds like he’s choked. “I know you can’t. And you definitely won’t remember this tomorrow anyway.” Ian has no idea where he’s gotten that from. “I feel weird as fuck that you’re seeing this though.” 

Ah. The painting. He’s… embarrassed? Maybe. He might be embarrassed. It probably seems strange to him that he’s painted Ian twice in a couple weeks. Of course, it makes perfect sense to Ian. They’re true mates. Fated for each other. But Mickey doesn’t know that. All he knows is that this is the second time a werewolf has shown up at his house. And it’s the second time he’s painted said werewolf. 

Ian wants to reassure him so he approaches Mickey slowly. He nudges his nose against his knee which is now covered in a pair of thin flannel pajama pants. Mickey just looks down at him with an unreadable expression. Ian nudges again and again until the expression is gone and replaced with a familiar exasperated one instead. An exasperated Mickey is a Mickey he knows well. 

He reaches over and gently shoves Ian’s nose away from him. “God, fuck, stop.” He huffs. “You’re too damn calm. Aren’t you fuckers supposed to be feral or some shit?” Ian tilts his head. What the fuck is he talking about? “Shouldn’t you be trying to kill me or turn me or whatever?” 

Ian’s growl rumbles low in his chest. He doesn’t want to hurt Mickey. He never wants to hurt Mickey. He never will hurt Mickey. Why does he think Ian wants to hurt him? 

Mickey shifts, “Yeah, like that. Shouldn’t we be fighting to the death or some shit?” Ian huffs aggressively through his nose and leans in to butt his head against his thigh angrily. He hopes Mickey understands his displeasure at this. “Alright, alright, fuck. Stop it.” Mickey shakes his head and urges Ian away again. “Whatever. You’re an overgrown dog, I get it.” 

Ian bares his teeth. Mickey rolls his eyes and flips him off. “Tell it to someone who gives a shit.” Ian wants to laugh and then ask Mickey what he’s working on despite the fact that he has eyes and can see. But he can’t and so he doesn’t. Mickey continues to gaze at him for only a second longer and then goes to finish up. He’s made a lot of good progress. He probably could finish by the end of the night. When Ian wakes up tomorrow afternoon, he’ll remember the painting and realize it isn’t photo-realistic. It’s stylized and he’s taken some creative liberties. Ian will wonder if it’s because he was going off memory. He’ll wonder if it’s because he was worried about making a mistake, so he made them on purpose. 

Ian waits a few more minutes, but his wolf is no longer agitated and instead wants to bask in its mate’s presence. So Ian takes a deep breath, circles around a few times, and lays down. Mickey glances at him before going back to his stuff. 

Ian’s teetering between sleep and wake when Mickey moves quickly. He sits up immediately, eyes assessing for threats. But there are none. No one is out there. “The moon just came up.” He says it as an accusation. “You’re… you turned early. Are you really just a regular fucking wolf?” He loses his confidence at the end there. Ian just sighs and lays back down. “So no?” Ian doesn’t even bother looking up, just twitching his ears so he knows he was heard. “Damn, alright. Attitude.” He mutters under his breath. “How’d you turn so early? You shouldn’t be able until now.” 

Ian yawns and shifts so his snout is facing away from Mickey. “You can't understand me.” Mickey seems to be reminding himself of this very false sentiment. “I fucking know you can’t understand me and that you can’t turn so fucking early. So why the fuck are you here and acting like you can?” Ian, just to further prove to Mickey that he’s perfectly sentient, looks at him sharply and nudges the stool just enough to jostle him. Mickey glares down at him. “What? You’re fucking special or some shit?” Ian nudges the legs again. “Fine. If you can understand me so fucking well, then you can find me when you’re not a wolf, can’t you?” 

Ian goes back to facing away, uninterested in whatever this is. “Why’re you just showing up on the full moon if you’re like this?” He asks, but the words are soft and he does sound confused. More confused than annoyed. Ian closes his eyes and decides to go back to his half-sleep. It’s as close to sleeping as his wolf has ever let him get. “Yeah, fuck you too. Ain’t got shit to say now, huh?” Ian grumbles deep in his throat. “Damn overgrown dog.” He lets that one go. It almost sounds like a complement anyway. 

Mickey lets Ian sleep, or whatever the hell he’s doing, until the first signs of dawn arise. He nudges Ian’s ribs with his slipper and tells him, “Go back to wherever you came from. I still don’t wanna see how fucking creepy you look when you turn back.” Ian rises and shakes out his fur. Mickey observes him. “If you really can understand me, come back when you’re a real fucking person again.” Then he grabs his painting and walks inside. 

Ian wants so badly to tell him he already has come back as a person. 

• - 

Ian doesn’t go to see Mickey as a real fucking person until the morning after. He’s generally irritated that he had to miss a day, but he figured that Mickey would also be sleeping in. He doesn’t know what Mickey’s typical afternoons look like so he didn’t want to just show up after he’d woken up either. Honestly, he figured Mickey would hardly notice. Or, well, he’d hardly care. 

That’s not the case.

When Ian walks up to Mickey’s porch, the man is sitting on the steps with a sour look on his face. As Ian gets closer, he scowls and stands up, crossing his arms. “Where the fuck were you yesterday?” 

Ian’s eyebrows furrow and he glances to the empty easel, then to the nearly empty mug of coffee, then to Mickey’s face again. “What?” 

“You didn’t fucking show up yesterday. I wasted a whole fucking cup of coffee on you, asshole!” 

Ian smiles despite knowing now’s not the time. In fact, it just seems to piss Mickey off more. “You could’ve just drank it yourself.” He points out.

“The way you like it’s fucking disgusting.” Ian raises his eyebrows. “If you’re not gonna take it black then why bother?” Mickey huffs and turns to glare at the trees Ian came from. 

“Did you really make some for me yesterday?” He asks because he just can’t believe it. Mickey was up all night. There’s no way he napped for maybe a couple hours and then got up again to see Ian. 

Mickey scoffs and looks at him like he’s stupid, “Course I fucking did. I’ve been doing it every fucking morning for weeks. What the fuck was up?” 

“I had to work late the night before. So I kinda overslept.” He smiles as sheepishly as he can manage. “I didn’t wake up until three.” 

He blinks at Ian. No movement, no words, no noise. Just blinks at him as if he can’t believe it. “Lazy motherfucker.” He grumbles. Then he shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and motions for Ian to follow him. Mickey steps around him as he descends the stairs and walks out to his front yard. Where, parked on the little gravel path, sits a red, beat up pickup truck. He pulls the key from the pocket of his shorts and turns to wait. What is he waiting for, Ian wonders. “Well? Get your ass in.” Then he gets into the driver’s seat. 

Ian has no fucking clue what’s going on but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He scrambles to join Mickey in the truck. “Where are we going?” 

Mickey ignores him in favor of starting the car and rolling the windows down. Ian buckles and waits impatiently for his answer. “Farmer’s market.” 

Ian blanches. Farmer’s market? “Farmer’s market?” 

“Yeah. You know what that is?” He glances at Ian from the corner of his eye as he turns around to drive down toward the main road. 

“Yes I know what it fucking is. Why are we going?” He scowls at Mickey for the snarky comment. 

“I need shit from it?” He wonders if Mickey’s being like this on purpose. 

Instead of pressing, Ian just settles back and gives in. “Alright.” 

The drive into town isn’t terribly far, only about twenty minutes, and the warm wind from the windows is incredible. Ian almost opens his mouth to taste the air like a fucking dog. He doesn’t think that will help Mickey’s current impression of werewolves. Downtown, Mickey parallel parks on a side street. He takes Ian to the center of town where, sure enough, there’s a pretty popular farmer’s market happening. Ian never comes this far into town. He doesn’t know when the last time he would have been here. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been here. 

Ian’s led directly to a vendor’s booth that has an almost absurdly long line. Are there even this many people who live in town, he wonders. The smells are… not terrible. To be fair, he’s fresh off the moon which is when his senses are at their weakest. But in such a large crowd Ian would expect to feel overwhelmed. He turns to look at Mickey standing next to him and wonders if the way his wolf has latched onto his scent has something to do with it. It’s almost as if his nose is so laser focused on Mickey it can’t be bothered to pick up anything else. 

“So what’s this?” Ian asks and nods in the direction of what they’re in line for. 

Mickey sniffs, “Bread.” 

Ian turns his head and smiles a small, private smile he doesn’t want Mickey to see. Not yet anyway. It’s too enamored for him to feel comfortable sharing it right now. “Bread.” He repeats softly. 

They stand quietly in line and as they get closer Ian can start to smell it. Finally they’re in view of the display case where various pastries and loaves sit for sale. Ian’s eyes widen as he suddenly feels ravenous. There’s apple danishes and chocolate chip muffins and almond croissants and lemon tarts and seven different types of loaves of bread. Ian’s never seen anything like it. 

He hears Mickey laugh under his breath next to him. “Now you fucking get it.” He murmurs and elbows Ian to get him to move. 

Ian nods. They’re next in line. He feels his heart break when he remembers he left his wallet at home. Technically he leaves his wallet at home every morning. But damn how he wishes he had brought it just this once. 

“Hey Mick.” The boy behind the table greets. Ian’s nostrils flare as he’s ignored. This kid likes Mickey. He can’t be more than nineteen. And sure, he’s cute. But in the way Ian’s little brother is cute. Does Mickey feel that way though? 

“Jay.” Mickey nods in acknowledgement. “Aight, let me do the olive and thyme, sourdough…” He tilts his head back and forth in consideration, “and the cinnamon twist.” 

Jay nods and moves to bag them up. “I knew you’d want the cinnamon!” He grins, “You have such a sweet tooth. When Mom was baking I told her to make extra cause you’d wipe us out.” 

Ian clenches his hands at his sides to keep from ripping this kid’s throat out. Mickey doesn’t even reply to him. Instead, he elbows Ian again and asks, “What d’you want?” 

Ian looks down at him and smiles, “I left my wallet at home. I’m good.” 

Mickey scoffs, “Ian, don’t be a fucking dick. What do you want?” 

“I’m not gonna make you–” 

“You’re not making me do shit. Just think of it as payment for getting dragged out here.” Mickey raises his eyebrows, “Now will you just spit out what the fuck you want?” 

He sighs and bites his cheek because oh my Gods . Mickey is going to be the death of him. “Almond croissant?” He raises the end as a question. 

“Mm, good choice. Those’re good.” He motions to Jay, “Two almond croissants too.” 

Jay finally spares Ian a glance. He frowns at him and Ian looks right back. “You got it.” He says sullenly. He hands a couple bags over to Mickey, “Forty-two even.” 

Mickey fishes out cash from a worn leather wallet. He hands over fifty, waits for eight back, and then nods his goodbye. Ian immediately takes the paper bags from his arms. “Gimme my croissant.” Mickey instructs him, holding out an expectant hand. 

Ian feels warm all over and it isn’t from the sun. It feels so domestic. It feels like Ian is so ingrained in Mickey’s routine that he’s comfortable enough to drag him here and demand things of him. Ian roots around for the small pastry bag and places it in Mickey’s waiting grasp. He watches entranced as Mickey takes a bite and groans. “Good?” 

Mickey shakes his head, “You got no idea, man.” 

Ian hums, “I can’t wait to try it.” 

Mickey smirks at him, “You’ll get your turn, Firecrotch, don’t worry.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Why’re you so damn concerned about my pubes?” 

“I’m not. You seem concerned that I know what your pubes look like.” He retorts around a mouthful. 

Ian nearly flips him off but they’re in public so he restrains himself. He follows Mickey to a stall with a huge spread of vegetables. “Hi there Mickey.” An old man greets as he continues laying out various piles. “What’re you thinking for this week?” 

“Hey Fred, no fucking clue.” Mickey examines a couple tomatoes. “Slept like shit last two days, didn’t put enough thought into what I’m doing for food.” 

“Hmm,” Fred seems to consider Mickey. He looks back down and then grabs a plastic bag. He puts a few eggplants, a bunch of asparagus, some zucchini, and summer squash into it. “I know you wanna check out your usuals yourself. Eggplant parmesan’s one of my favorite dishes. And the rest in here make for great sides.” 

Mickey looks to Ian who reaches out to take the bag when meeting imploring eyes. He nods in approval and goes back to his tomatoes. “Sounds good. You never led me wrong before.” Mickey moves down to inspect a few onions and then heads of garlic. Once he’s picked what he wants, He places them in a new plastic bag that Fred hands him. 

“This one yours?” Fred addresses Ian this time. 

He looks down at Mickey who just stares back neutrally. He shrugs with a grin, “Who knows.” But Ian knows. Mickey is his. All his. 

Mickey scoffs, “Alright, tell me the damage, you nosey bastard.”

Fred just laughs, “Give me twenty and we’ll call it a deal.” 

Mickey gives him an exasperated look, “That’s not a fucking deal, Fred, that’s what you charge everyone.” 

“I’m giving you a dollar off!” He protests with a deep chuckle. 

He just scoffs and pulls out a twenty dollar bill. “See you next week.” 

“Keep an eye on this one!” Fred calls after them to Ian, jerking his thumb at Mickey. 

Ian grins and nods. Mickey catches it and elbows him, “Don’t encourage him.” 

“He seems nice!” He argues. 

“He’s a swindler.” Mickey states with absolute fondness. He stops them in front of another long table, this one with fruit. 

“Oh, hi hun.” A middle-aged woman comes from around the truck behind the booth.

“Hey Mrs. H.” He’s already in the zone. He picks up a bag with a few bunches of grapes. He nods to himself, apparently liking what he sees, and reaches in to pop one in his mouth. Ian gapes at him. 

“You’re a menace, you know that?” Mrs. H scolds him. 

“I’m just checking!” He defends himself as he tugs the bag closer to himself. 

“They’re perfect every week.” She argues. 

Mickey waves her off and picks up a basket with raspberries. Ian has no idea what he’s checking for honestly. He seems so intent with it. When Ian goes to pick up produce from the store, he looks for mold and soft spots. Mickey seems to be looking for… something else. He sets down the current basket and picks up another. Ian stands in silence, shifting the bags around in his arms because what the hell, are they doing Mickey’s weekly grocery shopping? “Do you have any more grapefruits?” He glances up at her briefly. 

Mrs. H huffs and turns around. She folds back the corner of a white sheet she has draped over various lumps in the bed of her truck. She pulls out a plastic crate with two grapefruits and slides it over to him. “I saved my best two. I knew you’d want to take a look for yourself to decide. Whichever you don’t want I’m taking home for myself.” 

Mickey turns his attention from the nectarines he’s holding to the two fruits now in his line of sight. He empties his hands to pick up one at a time. He turns the first over several times before doing the same to the second. “Hm.” He gives each a sniff as well before turning to Ian. “Here, smell this.” 

Ian blinks in surprise as a grapefruit is thrust under his nose. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for but smells anyway. Mickey watches his face before shoving the second one at him. After he’s smelled both of them, he asks, “What am I looking for?” 

Mickey huffs, “You never buy fruit or what?” Ian just smiles. “Which smells better?” 

Ian looks between them in thought before jerking his chin at the one in his left hand. “That one. Was sweeter and stronger.” 

Mickey looks curiously down at it before smelling it again himself. “I couldn’t really tell a difference.” He murmurs to himself before turning back to Mrs. H. “Alright, here ya go.” He hands her the right grapefruit. 

She rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Damn, I was really hoping you wouldn’t realize that one was better.” She teases him. Mickey glances at Ian from the side of his eye. “Alright, nectarines this week too?” 

He sighs and stares longingly at the three sitting in front of him. “No. I won’t eat all this shit before it goes bad. Next week I’ll trade it out with the grapes.” 

“What do you mean?” She looks between the two of them. “You’ve got help now.” 

Mickey looks at Ian, “I’m not sharing my shit with him.” 

Ian feigns outrage, “What? I can’t even have one grape?” 

Mickey just elbows him, “Fuck off.” 

Ian looks off to the side and pouts until Mickey scoffs at him. It sounds like the scoff is covering a laugh though so he breaks the pout to smile. “If that’s all you’re wanting then I’ll need fifteen.” Mrs. H tells him. 

Mickey nods and hands it over while she bags up his fruit. She dumps the basket of raspberries into a thin plastic bag before setting everything in a paper bag for him. “Pleasure doing business with you.” He nods to her as she hands it over. 

“See you next week, dear.” She waves as they walk away. 

Ian worries that Mickey’s going to take them somewhere else but luckily he leads them back to the truck. He pauses and frowns at the passenger door before turning to look at Ian. “Damn. You’re taking up too much fucking space. I got nowhere to put this shit now.” 

Ian looks at him incredulously. “You didn’t think of that?” 

Mickey scowls, “No, the fuck would I? Never had anyone tag along.” 

“You dragged me out here!” Ian protests but is way too pleased at that tidbit of information. He feels energy crackle over his skin at the opportunity to have seen Mickey in this environment. He wonders if he’ll want to continue coming out here every weekend when they’re together. 

Oh. Will Mickey even want to move in with him? Will he join Ian and his pack on their land? Will Ian get the opportunity to build their home, a place where they will grow old together? 

He can’t think about that right now, he tells himself. It’s not helpful. He needs to appreciate what he’s been given for now. They can address that later. Mickey doesn’t even know what Ian is, let alone the fact that they’re true mates. Besides, if Mickey decides he doesn’t want to live with the community well then… Ian will just have to be fine with commuting. 

“You missed yesterday! I wasted a whole cup of coffee on your ass. Didn’t even get to sleep until eleven.” He shakes his head and plants his hands on his hips as he surveys the truck again. Ian wants to address that comment. He wants to clarify, ask if that means that Mickey actually waited up for him rather than sleeping after being up the whole night. But Mickey barrels on. “Fine. You’re gonna have to hold all this shit on your lap.” 

Ian makes a noise of protest, “What? Come on Mickey…” He bats his eyelashes, “just put it in the back of the truck.” 

He glares, “Are you fucking kidding? My shit’ll get all bruised.” He scoffs, “God, it’s like you were raised by fucking wolves. Don’t know shit about buying produce.” He mutters it to himself but Ian hears him anyway. He stiffens and stares wide-eyed, wondering if Mickey’s figured it out. But no. Of course he hasn’t. He doesn’t even know birthers are a thing. Besides, it’s just a saying among humans anyway. “Aight, get in.” 

Ian huffs but does as he’s told. Once he’s situated the bags in his own hands on his lap, Mickey hands over the one he has in his. It’s a precarious job balancing all these bags. He almost complains again but just manages to bite his tongue when he sees the amusement and poorly contained laughter on Mickey’s face. Ian manages to lift a hand and flip him off before Mickey starts driving off. 

“Why’d you decide to go to this thing today anyway?” Ian asks after a moment of silence. 

“I go every week.” He states with furrowed eyebrows. 

“Oh. Do you usually go earlier?” He’s trying to figure out why he’s not known this until now. Mickey’s always around Saturday mornings. There’s never any indication that he’s had a change in his schedule. 

“No. I’ve been going later, after you run off.” 

“Why’d you want to go earlier then?” 

“Because my bread’s been sold out every time I get down here that fucking late. I’m not losing out on any more bread for your ass.” Mickey states with a tinge of resentment. 

He looks at Mickey’s profile as his eyes move back and forth over the road. He’s focused but not overly so. He’s confident in the truck but not so much so to be reckless. “There was so much bread over there this morning though.” 

“Heather’s booth’s crazy fucking popular. She sells out quick. You saw how long that damn line was and that’s this fucking early. They basically just opened by the time we got there.” 

Ian hums and looks out the open window. The air smells so clean now that they’ve moved further into the forest. “Sorry you’ve been missing out on your bread.” 

Mickey waves him off, “S’whatever. I fucking survived.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” Ian says unnecessarily. 

“You woulda broken into my fucking house if I didn’t.” 

Ian laughs, taken aback, “What?” 

Mickey smirks at him briefly, “I know you’ve been casing the place. You’re just looking for a way in.”

Ian rolls his eyes, “Fuck off. If I wanted to break in I’d’ve done it by now.” 

“You’re too fucking soft to break in anyway. Never woulda made it back in the Southside.” Mickey says. 

Ian grins, “Alright, tough guy. I would’ve made it just fine, I can handle myself. And I’m not fucking soft, what the hell are you talking about?” 

Mickey shakes his head, “You’ve got that pussy, twink energy. I knew guys like you back home. Acted tough but couldn’t throw a punch if they wanted. Spoiled rich kids.” 

Ian tilts his head, “Yeah? You knew twinks like me back home, huh?” 

Mickey flushes when he realizes what he’s said, “Fuck you.” 

“Sounds like you want to.” He teases and laughs when Mickey flips him off. “Either way, I can fight just fine. Dunno why you’ve got this impression of me being rich either.” 

“You’re taking over a family business . That’s rich people shit.” 

Ian hums, “Didn’t you say something about your dad wanting you to be part of his family business? How do you know it’s not like that?” 

Mickey’s expression darkens as does his scent. “It’s not.” He glances at Ian, “Unless you’re pimping girls out and selling shit on the corner.” 

“No, we’re not.” He agrees easily, “But we’re not rich. Besides, you’re the one who’s some renowned artist.” 

“I’m not renowned, Jesus Christ. Just my job. Make enough to get by.” 

“You’re buying all your groceries at a fucking farmer’s market, Mickey. You’re not just getting by.” He points out. 

Mickey sighs and makes a sharp turn onto the long gravel path that leads up to his house. “Whatever. Doesn’t make me rich.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being rich.” 

“I didn’t fucking say there was.” He snaps and Ian leaves it alone. He puts the truck in park and climbs out. Ian struggles to figure out how he’s going to get out with all this shit on his lap. He doesn't have to struggle for long though because Mickey’s opened his door and is taking a couple of the bags. Ian grabs the plastic bags with his vegetables and the last paper bag with a loaf of bread and his almond croissant. He follows Mickey up to his front door. 

Mickey doesn’t even pull a key out to unlock it, just turning the knob and letting them in. He stares at it incredulously, “You know, for a dude so worried about someone breaking in, you’re awfully relaxed about leaving your fucking house unlocked.” 

Mickey sets his bags on the counter and turns to smirk at Ian, “I’m not worried about someone breaking in. I’m worried about you breaking in. No one else knows I’m out here.” 

As he’s setting the bags he’s carrying down next to Mickey’s, he freezes, “Really?” 

He shrugs and starts fishing stuff out, “Yeah. I’m pretty damn far from town. Not like I need any of those fuckers down there to know where I live anyway.” 

Ian licks his lips and follows suit. He has no fucking clue where anything goes so he just helps get it out. He’s hardly finished with the first bag of vegetables when Mickey bats his hand away. “Go sit and eat your fucking croissant.” 

Ian perks up at the reminder and takes the pastry bag Mickey’s already extending toward him. He moves to sit at a small, old kitchen table tucked into a nook near a few windows. It overlooks Mickey’s garden. He takes the croissant out and finds it slightly sticky with a sugary icing. Immediately following his first bite, he groans in ecstasy. “Holy fuck Mickey.” 

Mickey leans out from where he’s still rummaging around in cabinets to grin smugly at him, “Good, huh?” 

“Damn good, holy shit. How am I gonna survive the rest of my mornings without one of these?” He stares longingly down at it. 

Mickey chuckles, “You can get more next weekend. Stock up on em.” 

Ian’s mouth is occupied so he can’t really say that he’s definitely not going into town next weekend. Or really any weekend. It’s not exactly his style. He glances up to find Mickey disappeared back into his kitchen which gives him the opportunity to look around. The walls are all wood paneling which leans very much into the rustic vibe. His living room is furnished with a brown leather couch and armchair, a green knitted throw crumpled up on one of the cushions. He has a green and white rug with an almost tribal-looking pattern under a large wooden coffee table. There’s a TV mounted to the wall, an Xbox sitting on a floating shelf below it. The french doors that lead out to his back porch are behind his armchair where Ian can barely make out his empty easel. 

There’s a hallway that Ian assumes leads to his bedroom and bathroom. Ian’s dying to see what Mickey’s bedroom looks like. All in due time, he has to remind himself. Once he’s finished off his breakfast, he stands and walks back into the kitchen where he finds Mickey fussing with his coffee maker. Ian had expected a Keurig or some single serve machine, but it’s one of those multi cup pots. The kitchen counters are a light beige marble and the cabinets a warm cream. His appliances are all stainless steel and look relatively new which just further proves Ian’s point that Mickey is definitely not poor. 

Mickey glances over his shoulder to see Ian hovering just a few steps away. “What’re you looking at?” 

He smiles and tries, “You.” He hopes he doesn’t sound too stupid. 

Mickey scoffs and turns his face away quickly but the tips of his ears go pink. Ian wants to follow the flush with his tongue as it travels down his neck. Once Mickey has the coffee brewing, he steps away to grab a couple mugs from the cabinet right above him. He turns to the fridge where he grabs a bottle of cream. But it’s very clearly not from the local grocery store. 

“Where’s that from?” He asks. 

“Hm?” Mickey questions distractedly as he slides Ian’s mug closer to himself and pours in the perfect amount to the bottom. “Oh, this?” He glances at it. “Local dairy farmer not far from here.” 

Ian stares at him for a long time. Long enough that the coffee is done and he’s being handed his mug. “Do you buy anything from the store?” 

Mickey snorts, “No. Why the fuck would I do that when I can just get everything locally?” 

“Because it’s more expensive?” 

Mickey shrugs, “Not always. And it’s…” He seems to consider his words carefully here, “nice to support local businesses. We all kinda help each other out. They buy my shit, I buy theirs. And any tourists who ask for recommendations we send each other’s way.” 

Ian’s breath hitches at that. Mickey won’t want to move away. Or, even if he does, he’d never give up being a human. He’d never give this up. Not that Ian would want him to or make him. He thinks Mickey could easily do their grocery shopping down at the farmer’s market every weekend. Ian would be happy to come along or let him go. Ian wants Mickey to be able to do whatever he wants, whatever his heart desires Ian wants to give him. 

But it does scare him a little. Not that Mickey is not only human but deeply ingrained in the community. Because Ian can’t ask him to move to his community and start over. 

“That’s nice.” He says a few beats too late. 

Mickey looks at him weird. “Mhm,” He hums noncommittally. 

Ian gazes into his cup and watches the way the creamy liquid ripples as he brings it to his lips. “Where do you get your coffee from?” 

Mickey smiles, “I actually get it from the store. No one grows coffee out here.” 

He snorts, “Of course you do.” 

“Fuck off. You get everything from the store, don’t judge my shit.” 

“Sorry for missing yesterday. Sucks you had to waste your store-bought coffee.” Ian smirks but he really is sorry. 

Mickey flips him off, “Fuck you man.” 

He laughs and bumps Mickey’s shoulder. “Thank you for taking me with you today. Was fun.” 

“I needed someone to carry my shit.” Mickey mumbles but Ian knows the excuse is pathetic and false. He seemed to manage just fine every week before this. He doesn’t call him out on it though. He’s just happy Mickey wanted his company enough to bring him along. It almost feels like he missed him. Ian missed Mickey. It’s nice to think he felt the same. 

They finish their coffees standing in the kitchen in silence. Ian lets his eyes wander the house, “This is a really nice place you have.” 

“Mm, worked my ass off for it.” Mickey tells him. “I’m shit at decorating too. But, uh,” His eyebrows furrow and his mouth is pressed tight for a second, “I imagined what my sister woulda done to the place.” 

Ian aches for him at that. He was close with his sister it seems. He wonders why he doesn’t talk to her, why he considers himself no longer family with any of them. “Surprised your artistic talent didn’t translate to interior decorating.” He says instead of voicing any of that. 

Mickey seems grateful for his subtle redirection. “Can’t really do shit other than figure the best places to hang my shit up.” 

“You have stuff hung up?” Ian hadn’t seen anything. 

“Mostly in my bedroom. I don’t really have a lot of stuff that I’ve painted for myself.” 

“What about…” Ian trails off, “you said you have one day a month you paint whatever you want?” 

“Yeah. But that’s not for me.” 

Ian doesn’t understand. “Who’s it for then?” 

Mickey’s lips twist, “I don’t know.” 

Oh. Oh. Is it for me? He tries not to get ahead of himself. He has no idea if that’s why Mickey’s been out every full moon painting. If it’s because the Gods have found a way to push him toward Ian. He doesn’t know when Mickey even started painting every month. It could be completely unrelated. But he has a strong sneaking suspicion it’s not at all unrelated. “Must have a lot of paintings saved up right? If you’ve been doing it once a month.” 

“I’ve only really done it the last year and some change. Started in May last year I think.” Mickey looks up at the ceiling in thought. “Yeah. Before that it was every few months that I would. But May’s when it got pretty… intense, I guess.” 

Ian’s nostrils flare. May. His mom died in May last year. Were the Gods… did they know that Ian needed Mickey? Or maybe he wasn’t ready until she passed? He shouldn’t try to understand it. The Gods obviously know best and perhaps it was just priming. Perhaps they just wanted to get Mickey ready for Ian. “Did something happen then?” 

Mickey snorts, “No. That’s the weird fucking thing. Totally random.”

“Hm,” Ian can’t say more. He doesn’t have the ability to say more. The brain capacity to think beyond oh my Gods this is really happening. Not that he didn’t think it was happening before. But now it feels so obvious, almost too obvious. Too real. He needs to get out of here. “I’ll get outta your hair now.” He smiles and steps back. 

Mickey rolls his eyes, “Whatever man. You’ll be back in my hair again tomorrow anyway.” He’s teasing but there’s something in his eyes that Ian recognizes as a question. He wants to know if Ian is coming back. 

“Yeah. And probably every day after that. So I should at least give you a break.” He smiles. 

Mickey scoffs and shoves him as he walks around to take him to the french doors. He opens them and steps aside. “See you tomorrow, Firecrotch.” 

Ian laughs as he almost stumbles down the stairs with the comment. “Quit thinking about my dick!” He calls as he jogs off. Mickey, a lovely pink, flips him off. Ah shit. Ian’s fucked. 

• - 

The next morning Ian’s invited inside for his daily coffee. Mickey has it sitting on the table in front of the seat Ian had claimed yesterday. He slides in the chair across from him and sips from his own cup. Ian asks him what he’s currently working on. Mickey’s face falls before it goes blank. “Nothing.” He answers and Ian wants so badly to press but can tell that Mickey won’t answer. 

So instead Ian asks what Mickey made for dinner last night and is regaled with the tale of his herb-crusted chicken and squash. He finds out that Mickey grows most herbs out in his garden and that he gets his meat from the butcher on the edge of town. After their mugs are empty and Ian starts thinking that maybe he should get going, Mickey stands and starts to cut up his grapefruit. Despite his insistence yesterday that he wouldn’t be sharing, he places the plate between them and waits until Ian gets the hint to pick up a piece. 

It’s delicious and Ian thinks he made a great choice which leads to a smug smirk directed at Mickey when he comments on the taste. Mickey ends up flipping him off with a roll of his eyes. They finish the fruit in comfortable silence. It’s the kind of silence that makes Ian long for a future where Mickey knows everything about him and he can share what he gets up to during the day. He wants to talk about nothing with him. But for now there’s nothing to talk about. 

When the plate is clear, Ian stands to leave. Mickey walks him out and hesitates at the threshold when Ian’s said goodbye with the promise of tomorrow. Ian waits with bated breath. Maybe Mickey’s going to make a move, he hopes. But no such luck. Mickey seems to shake himself from whatever thoughts were going through his head and he waves Ian off. 

The rest of the week follows a very similar pattern: Ian is invited inside, they take their coffee at the small table in the nook, they share some of Mickey’s freshly prepared fruit, and then Ian heads back home. It’s addicting. 

Ian finds himself growing impatient. Every morning he has to leave, he wishes for nothing more than to stay. Than to be allowed to stay. He wants to move in. It’s an insane thought. But he wants to move into this cozy cabin, stuff his things next to Mickey’s in the closets, set up their toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, and clutter the various surfaces with his random junk. He wants Mickey’s lived in home to be their lived in home. He wants to see the evidence of their love and their bond and their intertwined lives scattered all around. He doesn’t even care about building a home for them right now. He doesn’t care. All he cares about is shouldering his way into Mickey’s life, carving out a place here so deep that Mickey will never be able to go back. 

On Friday morning, Ian asks if Mickey wants him to stop by later tomorrow so he can go to the market early and not miss Heather’s bread. Mickey just looks at him for a while before saying, “You’re not getting off that easy, Ian.” Which he takes to mean that he will also be joining Mickey on this adventure. Again. Again. Oh Gods. 

So he finds himself following behind Mickey like a puppy as they leave the bread stall for Fred’s vegetables. He’s not paying attention to anything else but Mickey and the smell of Mickey and the way his wolf positively hums with being invited for a second time to see this special version of him. A version that he himself has said he’s never let anyone else see. Which is why he almost misses the new stand that’s popped up just a few feet away from Fred’s. 

Something flashes in the corner of his eye and, luckily for Ian, his heightened senses and quick reflexes draw his eyes to what looks like an apothecary-type set up. Ian initially writes it off but something shakes itself loose from his memory and he does a double take. Sure enough, it’s exactly what he thinks it is. Ian’s jaw tightens but he turns away to follow Mickey to the vegetables. 

“Morning! You brought your friend again.” Fred greets them with a grin. 

Mickey scoffs, “This jackass’s not my friend.” He immediately argues and then promptly falls into his produce-induced trance. 

Fred rolls his eyes, “I didn’t catch your name last time.” 

Ian smiles back, “I’m Ian.”

“Ian!” He exclaims with an approving nod, “Good name. You look like an Ian.” 

He laughs, “Never got that before.” 

“Ah, you’ve been told you look like something else?” Fred asks. 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“Well then! You look like an Ian.” He repeats. 

He chuckles but something in his gut is unsettled by the stand he knows is just behind them. He glances down at Mickey who’s still busy picking shit up and setting it back down. “Hey, I’m gonna–” 

Mickey cuts him off with a dismissive wave, “I’ll come find ya.” 

Ian and Fred share a fondly exasperated look which, if Ian weren’t so worried, he’d appreciate endlessly. He shifts the paper bag he’s holding to his left arm and goes where he’s being drawn. 

Just like he thought, as Ian approaches the table where the various phials with various liquids sit, the few that caught his attention start out clear. Once he’s at the edge, though, it changes to that thick, silvery oil he expected. It’s almost liquid mercury and when he picks it up and tilts the tube to see the consistency it’s undeniable what it is. 

Lupus Essence. It’s a hokey potion scammers sell to changelings under the guise of improving their new lives. It’s said to make you calmer during the month, ease the pain of your transition, and keep you lucid during the moon. It’s a filthy fucking lie. Every birther knows it. And, of course, completely illegal as far as the Court of Wolves is concerned. Most changelings can’t be bothered to follow the rules anyway so he’s not particularly surprised to see someone selling it. He’s just surprised to see it being sold out in the open like this. Although, unless you’re a wolf, you wouldn’t be able to recognize it. It’s completely clear and harmless to any human unlucky enough to come across it. 

He’s staring at the unlabeled thing when a man way too fucking old to be doing this kind of shit comes from the side of a trailer. “Ah,” He begins with a slimy nod and smirk, “you have great taste.” 

Ian grits his teeth, “Do you make this yourself?” He asks. 

The man doesn’t reply, “This is the best quality you’ll find that money can buy. My essence is far more powerful than any other seller you’ll come across.” 

He takes a deep breath to keep from snapping, “Do you make it?” He asks again. 

The man looks at him, “An entrepreneur never reveals his secrets, my boy.” Then his eyes run over Ian, taking in his neck, arms, and calves. His face turns calculating and careful. “You look familiar…” He mutters thoughtfully. Ian remains still, fingers clutching the bottle. “Those eyes… your nose, jaw… the smell. ” Ian straightens instinctively. “You’re one of Frank’s, aren’t you?” 

Ian leans back and wipes his face clear of any emotion, “You know my father?” He’s somehow simultaneously shocked and not surprised at all. If this illegal merchant knows his father, then his dad must be involved in some stupid shit. Which he’s always known Frank to be involved in stupid shit. 

The man’s face darkens and he reaches out too quickly for Ian to react, snatching the essence from his grip and glaring. “We don’t sell to your kind.” 

Ian huffs and glowers, “You shouldn’t be selling to any kind. It’s a fucking scam.” He raises his eyebrows, “Not to mention fucking illegal.”  

The man sneers, “You know nothing, child. I know you. You’re Fank’s only alpha. You’re next up and he’s nearly dead, isn’t he? You have plenty, never had to beg on the streets for money or food. You live in a community full of others just like you who fall at your feet as if you’re one of the Gods. You know nothing of what it’s like. Not for rogues, not for changelings. You have no room to judge.” 

Ian’s face twists, “You don’t know shit about what I do or don’t know.” 

“I know that your mother was nothing more than a dirty whore who wanted only to make a quick penny. She would’ve sold any one of you for a single line of coke if given the chance. Your mother understood. She knew what it was like. She couldn’t stand Frank or any of you, for that matter. So fucking spoiled. Never had to work for a fucking thing. You’ve got everything you’ll ever need handed to you.” The man practically spits in his face. “Come back when you’ve struggled for even a second and then tell me about what’s illegal.” 

Ian opens his mouth to retort when the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He looks over his shoulder to see Mickey stepping up beside him. He looks between Ian and the man. “Alright?” He asks Ian with a raised eyebrow. 

Ian’s nostrils flare as he tries with great difficulty to breathe Mickey in and calm his wolf the fuck down. Being challenged by a man he knows is a wolf has his skin tight and prickling. He’s too close to shifting and he’s around way too many humans for that to be even remotely okay. He barely catches his hand in time, curling his fingers into a fist before he can give in and touch Mickey. He needs to feel tethered to reality. He feels like he’s two seconds from ripping this man’s throat out. How dare he talk about his mother like that? 

“Good for you.” The man glares at him, voice bitter and sarcastic. Ian’s eyes cut to him and he’s certain they’ve flashed in warning. But the man doesn’t cower or back down. “How lovely. You’re just proving my point. You’ve never–” 

“Enough,” He growls, fingernails biting into his palm, possibly drawing blood. The seller’s mouth snaps shut and Ian knows then and there he’s not an alpha. Not even a strong beta. Possibly not even a birther at all. “Put your hide where your mouth is. Now.” He challenges. 

The man takes a sharp breath and with very controlled movements sets his potion back in its display. “Perhaps I’ll find you next month.” Is all he says. 

Ian snorts, “I’m sure you will.” 

He turns his attention to Mickey who’s remaining scarily silent. “Congrats.” He spits venomously, sneering with all the disdain of a lover scorned. 

Ian shakes his head and steps back, “Perhaps you’ll get lucky.” He turns to Mickey, “Let’s.” He jerks his head to signal he wants to move on. 

The man doesn’t say anything but Ian can feel his eyes burning holes through his back as they walk away. “What the fuck was that about?” Mickey asks, voice hard and expression set. 

Ian licks his lips. He doesn’t know how to explain that Mickey just witnessed his first wolf challenge. He’s certain it won’t be the last. “Nothing.” He tries but assumes it won’t work. He’s just buying time really.

Mickey scowls, “That didn’t look like nothing, Ian.” 

“Just some…” He sighs, “He knew my parents, I guess. Started talking shit.” Not untrue. Ian kind of started it by sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. 

Mickey makes a noise in the back of his throat, “What?” 

Ian stops a few feet away from Mrs. H’s stand and fixes Mickey with a firm look, “I’ve spent my whole life here, my family’s been here for generations. A lot of people around here know my family. Most of them probably recognize our last name even if they don’t know any of us personally. It’s not uncommon for shit like that to happen.” 

Mickey stays still, his eyes running over Ian’s face. “It got something to do with your family’s business?”

He shrugs, “Yeah basically.” 

Mickey hesitates, licks his lips, and then continues on to get his fruit. Ian wonders if this is really the last he’ll hear of this. From Mickey or the seller. 

After they’re back at Mickey’s and nearly finished with putting everything away, Mickey suddenly states, “It’s cool if your family business shit is like my dad’s.” 

Ian’s pulling out the last loaf of bread wrapped in wax paper when his hand freezes mid air. “What?” 

He doesn’t look at Ian as he rummages around, putting his raspberries and grapes in the fridge, nectarines in a bowl hidden off to the side of the counter, grapefruit still sitting on top of the bag waiting to be picked up. “I know I gave you shit about it, said you didn’t know what it was like or whatever. But if it’s that kinda shit I’m not gonna judge you. You don’t gotta feel ashamed or… I dunno.” 

Ian sets the bread down and turns to look at him properly. He continues avoiding eye contact. “Mickey.” He tries to get his attention. But Mickey refuses. He sighs and catches his wrist to stop him. He turns slowly, eyes settling somewhere over Ian’s shoulder. “It isn’t like that.” He promises. “We don’t do anything illegal. Or anything remotely close to it.” Mickey bites his bottom lip and meets Ian’s gaze. “I don’t want you to think that. We’re not like your dad. I’m not like your dad.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and tugs out of Ian’s loose grip. “I didn’t think you were.” He tries to play it cool but Ian can see the tension release from his shoulder. 

He drops it. His fingers find the pastry bag with two chocolate croissants, one for Ian, one for Mickey. Once Mickey’s put his grapefruit away and folded the bags up to recycle or store, Ian raises it up, “Breakfast?” 

He scoffs as if affronted by the question, “Gimme my fucking croissant.” He snatches it away and plucks his out of the bag. Once it’s safely in his hand, Ian grabs it right back. 

“Fucking thief.” He accuses and stalks over to the table dramatically. 

Mickey follows, snickering the whole way. They settle into breakfast and silence easily. “What d’you do all day?” Mickey asks as he’s licking his fingers clean. 

Ian swallows down his last bite, “Already told you I do jack shit.” 

“Yeah fucking weeks ago. That’s a lie, we both know it.” 

Ian tries not to feel anxious. “It’s really not much. Do the shit my dad doesn’t wanna do, annoy my siblings, hang out with some of my friends if we’ve all got the time, eat dinner with my family sans Frank, go to bed, rinse and repeat.” 

“Mm,” Mickey looks thoughtful, but not suspicious. “You’re close with your family.” 

“Yeah. I dunno if it’s more than normal, but it’s always been that way with us.” Ian chews his cheek, “I think the shit with our parents kept us close. Fiona, my oldest sister, basically raised us. We’ve always had to look out for each other.”

“Is it nice?” He asks with a hint of something in his tone. 

Ian nods, “Yes.” He answers simply. 

Mickey grimaces, “You’re lucky.” 

Ian agrees again, “Yes.” He watches as Mickey’s expressions change rapidly. Too quickly for him to catch. 

“Well. Your shit sounds more interesting than sitting around all day painting.” Mickey tries self-deprecatingly. 

Ian smiles wistfully, “No way. I’d love to be here with you all day, doing absolutely fucking nothing, no care in the world.” With a sharp look from Mickey he realizes what he’s just admitted to. He opens his mouth to say something but can’t find the right words.  

But instead of being thrown out on his ass like he assumed he might be, Mickey laughs at him, “Yeah alright Mr. I do jack shit all day.” 

Ian huffs, “You do jacker shit than me. So.” He protests pettily. 

Mickey rolls his eyes, “Yeah, alright. How was the chocolate one?” 

Ian hums appreciatively, “So good. But the almond’s my favorite so far.” 

“Next week we’ll have to try the ham and cheese. Wonder if you’re gonna prefer sweet or savory.” Mickey comments offhandedly. But to Ian the words make a home under his skin. Mickey’s making plans for next weekend. A whole week away! Mickey wants to go together for a third week in a row. Ian’s skin is tight for a pleasant reason now. His wolf is anxious to prance around in front of its mate like a fucking peacock. It wants to show off and prove what a good match they are. 

“Probably savory.” He says instead of doing all that crazy shit. “I don’t usually have a sweet tooth.” 

Mickey smirks, “I’ve got one enough for the both of us then.” 

Ian nearly chokes on nothing but the air and his spit. “Is that why you eat fruit every morning?” 

Mickey hums affirmatively, “I’d get diabetes if I didn’t. It’s either that or a whole fucking cake.” 

Ian laughs, “Oh Gods, you’re insane.” 

Mickey smiles something small and private and pleased, “You’re the one showing up at my house every fucking morning for the last month.” 

Ian looks out the window at the garden, “It has been a month already.” He realizes with a swirl of emotions. 

“Stubborn mother fucker.” Mickey says like it’s a compliment. 

He turns back to grin, “All part of my charm.” 

Mickey just scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Fuck off.” 

In the end, Ian doesn’t get his morning coffee—which is actually a good thing because he has a sneaking suspicion he’s dangerously close to getting addicted—but he does get a lovely morning spent shopping and then an even lovelier breakfast spent laughing. All with his true mate. It’s enough to nearly distract him from the Lupus Essence he saw. Nearly. But not quite. 

He returns home feeling itchy all over and a bad taste in his mouth. The anxiety grew during his run back home but as soon as he lays eyes on Lip and Fiona at the kitchen table, it skyrockets. 

“What’s up with you?” Lip asks with his face twisting in concern. 

He slides into an empty seat, “Went to the farmer’s market in town this morning–” 

“You went where, Ian?” Fiona cuts him off incredulously, her voice climbing in the start of a lecture. 

“Into town, that’s not important. Listen. There was a guy there selling Lupus Essence.” 

Fiona opens her mouth, possibly to just barrel ahead with her damn lecture anyway, but stops short as she seems to realize what he’s saying. “What?”

“Are you sure?” Lip eyes him. 

“Of course I’m fucking sure, Lip. Not only did I fucking see it, but I talked to the guy selling it. Knew Monica. Knows Frank. Recognized me, for fuck’s sake. And made damn fucking sure to tell me I don’t know shit about him or any of the changelings.” 

Lip sucks his teeth, “You recognize him?” 

“Fuck no. Old dude, definitely old enough to know better. He’s a changeling, I know that. But I don’t know shit else.” He shakes his head, “Didn’t even get his name. Mickey came up before I could press him so I had to get him out of there.” 

Fiona sighs, “Dear Gods, you went with Mickey. I should’ve known. You know, you can’t keep–” 

“Yes, I fucking know, Fiona. I’m… working on it. We’re getting somewhere, I’m just not willing to risk it yet.” He cuts her off. 

She frowns at him. “Fine. What do you want to do with this then?” 

Ian runs his fingers through his hair, “I doubt he’ll be back. Honestly. I confronted him, we kinda got into it, and then I. Well. Challenged him, basically.” He looks at Fiona a little sheepishly and her eyes flash dangerously. “If he’s there next week, I’ll bring it to the council. We can vote on whether or not to bring it to the Court’s attention. But if he’s not there, what are we supposed to do? I don’t know his name, I don’t know where he’s from, I can’t even remember what he smells like. I don’t have shit to go on.” 

Lip lets out a low whistle, “Damn. You’ve actually thought about it, huh?” 

Ian flips him off, “Fuck you. It’s about to be my job. Kev’s been on my ass about stepping up more anyway.” 

“It’s just weird, you being grown up and all.” Lip responds with a shrug. 

“Whatever. Point is, I’m gonna keep an eye on it and if he comes back we’ll deal with him then. For now I’m gonna assume he’s bolted.” 

Fiona sighs and watches him carefully, “Just be careful.” 

“I will. Promise.” 

• - 

It isn’t until Tuesday that Ian realizes he has yet to come up on Mickey painting. Since he last asked about it, he hasn’t seen a single canvas on his easel nor any stains indicating he’s even touched a drop of paint. He wants to ask again. He just doesn’t know how. 

He’s sitting at the table, one hand wrapped around his mug, the other holding a handful of grapes to pop between his teeth between sips. Mickey is staring out the window, eyes roaming his garden and thumbnail trapped between his teeth. There’s something off in Mickey’s energy. He isn’t sure what it is, but he can feel it. The air around him is charged and he smells wrong. Not bad. In fact, he smells good , that’s the damn problem. And it’s still early enough in the moon cycle that he shouldn’t be this affected. 

Ian moves his foot slowly under the table until it slides along Mickey’s, drawing his attention. “What’s up?” He tries when their eyes meet. 

Mickey is looking at him indecipherably. His pupils are blown and he’s replaced his nail with his bottom lip and his skin is so pink it’s bordering on red. He looks… well. He looks like he’s in heat. 

But that isn’t possible because Mickey’s fucking human for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t stop his wolf from responding in kind though. At the criminally arousing sight of his mate, Ian’s almost instantly hard. He never feels like this. Not even the day of the full moon. He’s so turned on it hurts. He’s never needed anyone like he needs Mickey right now. 

“Think I’m getting sick.” Mickey mumbles but his eyes are now fixed on Ian’s lips. 

Ian thinks he’s also getting sick. Sick with desire. He needs to control himself. He needs to chill the fuck out. Otherwise he’s going to do something he regrets and this whole thing will have been for nothing. His nostrils flare as Mickey, warm and sweet and so good , reaches his senses. He nearly opens his mouth in an attempt to taste it. He swallows thickly and agrees, “You look like you’ve got a fever.” 

Mickey nods and Ian is quick to stand when he starts leaning across the table. He seems to snap out of it and looks up, “Fuck man. I think I’m fucking delirious.” 

Ian’s laughter sounds strained to his own ears and he starts for the door, leaving a half-empty cup of coffee and a plate nearly full of grapes. “Take care of yourself today. I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow?” He doesn’t mean to ask. 

Mickey takes a deep breath through his nose, “Yeah. Hopefully it’s a twenty-four hour thing.” 

He says goodbye quickly and practically sprints away from the house. He’s never been in more of a rush to get the hell away from Mickey. Not even when he thought Frank was gonna die. 

He spends the rest of the day and most of the night completely useless. He agonizes over what the hell is going on with Mickey. He’s not in heat because he’s not a fucking wolf, but he's definitely not not in heat either because he’s sure as fuck not sick. Ian ends up pacing the length of his bedroom for hours until he finally tires himself out. 

Despite how exhausted he felt the night before, Ian wakes earlier than usual. He decides to go for an actual run before showing up at Mickey’s cabin under the guise of running. Not that he uses it as an excuse anymore. Mickey expects him to come. 

He’s sweaty and catching his breath as he walks up the stairs and into Mickey’s living room. Instead of the man sitting with a cup of coffee at the table, he’s nowhere to be seen. “Hello?” Ian calls out, toeing off his shoes and running a hand through what he knows to be messy hair. 

“In here.” Mickey’s voice travels from the kitchen. Ian pads over and finds himself greeted by the sight of him in front of the stove folding an omelet. He glances at Ian from over his shoulder, “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Ian repeats a little dumbfounded. “What’re you doing?” 

As Ian leans his hip against countertop, Mickey shoots him an unimpressed look, “I’m fucking cooking, what’s it look like?” 

“Yeah, but why?”

Ian anticipates Mickey snapping something smart like because I’m hungry or because it’s breakfast time. But he doesn’t. His posture softens and he fishes the omelet out and onto a plate. “I feel like I chased you outta here yesterday.”

Ian inhales sharply and realizes that Mickey doesn’t smell anymore. What a fucking relief. “You didn’t. But what’s that got to do with this?” 

“Apology omelets.” He states plainly and reaches up to grab two more plates. “Hey, grab the raspberries outta the fridge.” He tells Ian and passes him a bowl. 

Ian snorts, “Apology omelets, but I gotta work for my daily fruit?” 

“Fuck off.” Mickey doesn’t even look up. “And there’s strawberries in there. Get those too.” 

He grins into the open fridge, grabbing the containers of both. He sets the bowl down along with the two berries, but finds himself at a loss of what he’s supposed to do with it all. He looks helplessly at Mickey, “Uh–” 

Mickey pulls out a plastic cutting board and a knife. “Cut the strawberries, put sugar on em, and put em in the bowl.” He places one of his empty plates in front of Ian too. “Raspberries on here. I’m gonna cut up a nectarine once you’re done.” 

Ian bites his lip and looks at Mickey’s back as he dumps a bowl of raw scrambled eggs into his skillet. He sees a couple small containers with chopped tomatoes and spinach and some crumbled feta on a paper towel. He refuses to think about it right now. Instead, he chops strawberries into bite size pieces and dumps a spoonful of sugar over them in a bowl. Then he arranges the raspberries on the plate before turning to the fruit bowl to grab a nectarine. 

He’s only just cut it in half and pitted it when Mickey joins him at his side again. His face wrinkles in indignation, “Hey! I said I was gonna do that, you fucker.” He accuses. 

Ian just hip checks him and continues slicing the fruit. “You were busy.” 

“Pretty shit apology breakfast if I’m making you do half the damn work.” He grumbles but grabs the two plates with omelets to take over to the table. 

Ian doesn’t bother responding. Once he’s finished, he lays the slices on the raspberry plate before hauling that along with the strawberries in Mickey’s direction. He takes each from Ian one at a time before pointing and urging him to sit down. Ian rolls his eyes but does as he’s asked. Mickey comes back in with two glasses of orange juice and silverware and sits across from him. 

“This smells really good.” He tells Mickey before bringing his first bite to his mouth. 

“Mhm.” He hums neutrally but he’s watching Ian’s face closely. 

And Gods it tastes so fucking good too. Ian isn’t a bad cook. Not by any means. Fiona’s made sure that he and all his siblings can function well enough on their own should they need to. But Mickey’s food tastes phenomenal. He groans appreciatively, “Holy fuck Mickey, this is fucking incredible.” 

Mickey’s lips lift at the corners of his mouth, “Course it fucking is.” Only then does he take a bite of his own. 

After Ian practically licks his plate clean and is slowly working through the strawberries he’s only just realized came from Mickey’s garden, he asks, “Are you alright?” 

Mickey, lips red from the berries and slick from juice, shrugs, “Yeah. No fucking clue what that was about, but I’m good. Woke up normal.” He flicks his tongue out over his mouth and it’s fucking red too. What the fuck. “Sorry I fucking ran you outta here.” 

Ian nudges his shin firmly with his foot, “You didn’t, shut up.” Which isn’t exactly true because there was no fucking way Ian would’ve made it five more minutes in Mickey’s presence. But Mickey doesn’t need to beat himself up over it. “Are you…” He trails off, not sure how to ask what he wants to ask, “are you planning on painting again?” 

Mickey looks at him, “I’ve been painting.” 

“What?” That can’t be right. “No you haven’t.” 

He laughs, “How the fuck can you tell me what I’ve been doing when you’re not here for more than a couple hours max?” 

“But…” He searches helplessly for the right protest, “you haven’t been outside in days!” 

“Not til you’ve left, no.” Mickey smirks at him, “I’ve got a life outside of you, Ian. S’not like I just sit around twiddling my fucking thumbs waiting for you to show back up.” 

Ian glares at him, “I know. I just never see any of your shit out there anymore.” 

“Yeah, cause I’m not starting until you leave and I pack my shit up when I’m done.” 

Now he feels silly for not considering that. “Oh.” He looks out the window, cheeks hot with embarrassment at his self-absorption. 

Mickey snorts, “Yeah. Oh.” He’s mocking him. Whatever, he thinks, he deserves a little mocking for that probably. “What’d you do?” Mickey’s looking at him a little closer now. “You were all fucking sweaty and shit when you came in.” 

“Oh,” He exhales, “I ran a little bit before coming out here.” 

“What?” Mickey leans back in his seat, picking up a raspberry and biting into it. When Ian just shrugs, he goes on, “Why?” 

“Was restless as shit last night.” He shakes his head. “Needed to get energy out before I went insane.” 

“Hm.” Mickey doesn’t say anything else about it, but he does eye Ian curiously for a beat longer. 

It doesn’t take long after that for Ian to ask about what he’s been working on. Mickey tells him that Mara, the girl who runs the shop where he sells his paintings, told him that they’ve been selling out. She wants him to bring her more stuff sooner than they’d agreed because she’s already out. Despite it meaning that he has to take an extra trip into town, Mickey is glowing with pride. 

“I’m not surprised. You’re crazy talented.” Mickey shifts awkwardly, cheeks turning pink and kicking up a stampede of butterflies in Ian’s stomach. “You probably aren’t even charging enough.” 

Mickey laughs at that, “I definitely am. Probably charging too much.” Ian raises his eyebrows, “What? You want me to charge thousands?” 

Ian shrugs, “I dunno. It seems priceless honestly. Like, how do you even value something like that?” Mickey doesn’t seem to have an answer. “These are so fucking good by the way.” He raises a sugared strawberry. 

“Hell yeah they are. Took me a while to figure out how to grow shit. But once you get the hang of it, it’s pretty easy.” 

“Do you have any other hidden talents?” Mickey looks at him blankly. “You’re an artist–” 

“Painter.” Mickey cuts in to correct him. 

Ian narrows his eyes and barrels on, “gardener, now you’re coming out as a fucking chef.” Mickey looks like he’s about to argue with him again. “Is there anything you’re bad at?” 

He hesitates and really seems to think it over. “Communicating. Absolutely fucking shit at talking.” 

Ian tilts his head, “I think I can talk enough for the both of us anyway.” He smirks when Mickey scoffs. 

“Alright, chatty Cathy.” Mickey dismisses him but he’s pressing his lips together to suppress a smile. 

In the end, Mickey insists on doing the cleaning up despite Ian putting up many arguments. He reiterates that the whole thing was supposed to be an apology and Ian ended up preparing all the fruit so he’s done enough. Ian finally concedes when Mickey says he’s got work to do (“didn’t you just hear what I said about Mara?”) and all but kicks him out. 

Ian goes home with a full stomach and a blinding grin and an overflowing rush of too-much-too-soon emotions. As he’s falling asleep that night, his wolf presses up against his skin with impatience and an unyielding need to have Mickey. Soon, he promises, soon.  

• - 

It’s not soon. 

The next two Saturdays Ian joins Mickey at the farmer’s market. The man selling the Lupus Essence isn’t there and of course he fucking isn’t, he’d have to be insane. The days pass with no significant changes between them. Other than Mickey now cooking Ian breakfast at least twice a week. They still share a cup of coffee at Mickey’s kitchen table every morning, they still give each other hell, Ian still compliments Mickey and is spoiled with gorgeous pink skin as a result. It’s all wonderfully domestic. 

And every passing moment is making the timing of his confession worse and worse. There is no good timing. Especially not with the third full moon since they’ve met approaching. Ian’s realizing that it’s been too long. He could’ve—should’ve—done it immediately following the second moon. But he wasn’t willing to risk what was so tentative between them. Plus, that was the first time Mickey brought him into town. He couldn’t ruin it then. 

But oh Gods it’s terribly late now. And it’s only getting later. And oh fucking fuck it’s the morning of the moon and Ian’s wolf is the most demanding it’s ever been. His skin is tight and itchy and cracking with energy. Today, it declares. Ian’s doing his best to refuse him. 

For the first time in weeks, Mickey’s actually sitting out on the balcony painting. Ian has taken up his usual viewing perch on the other side of the rail and is leaning over to watch as he paints his once a month whatever the hell he wants painting. Ian has no idea what it is. Not yet anyway. 

“What’re you painting today?” He asks after a few minutes of silence. Mickey had only hummed and nodded at him when he’d approached. 

Mickey glances at him out of the corner of his eye, “Dunno yet.” 

His eyebrows furrow, “But you’ve already started.” 

Mickey huffs, “Probably gonna be something like the last two times. I dunno yet though.” 

Ian hums and tries not to ask. Does he mean he’ll be painting Ian again? And how does he not know what he’s painting? Instead he chews his bottom lip. “It’s supposed to be cool later tonight.” He comments thoughtlessly. “That should be nice.” 

“Yeah. Are you gonna be out tonight?” Mickey isn’t looking at him, rummaging around in his paints. 

“Yeah.” He replies. 

“Don’t you have work tomorrow morning?” Mickey pauses for a second and gives him a good look. “Why’re you gonna be out late?” 

Ian grits his teeth, “Doing stuff with my family. We’re planning on hanging out.” 

“Huh. Do you have a long drive to work?” He asks after a minute or so of silence. He’s leaned back into his easel and seems to have only half a mind of attention on Ian. 

“Uh.” 

“Where the fuck do you live anyway?” Mickey asks suddenly. He sits up straight on his stool and looks at Ian as if seeing him for the first time. “There’s no fucking way you’re coming all the way from town. And you said you jog every morning, that’s how you found me.” Ian doesn’t know where Mickey’s going. “Are there other cabins around here? They’d have to be new, they weren’t here when I moved in.” Ian stays silent. He doesn’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense. Also, he doesn’t really want to flat out lie to Mickey. “Are you gonna fucking answer me?” 

Mickey’s cheeks are a little pink from the warm air and probably the way he’s working himself up. “I don’t have a good answer.” He decides finally. 

Mickey stares at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “You don’t… have a good answer… to where you live?” He shakes his head, “Are you fucking insane? A stalker? Are you planning on killing me?” 

“Why is that the first thing you ask me?” Ian can’t help but smile. “Why does it always have to be me wanting to kill you?” 

Mickey blinks a few times, opening his mouth to reply and stopping himself. He stands up and approaches Ian then. They’re far too close for Ian’s liking when he’s looking like this. Ian’s wolf though, the one that needs to claim Mickey as his , is delighted. His eyes roam Ian’s neck and arms, down to his exposed calves and then back up to his face. “Take off your shirt.” He demands. 

“What?” Ian chokes out. How the fuck is this where their conversation has landed? 

“Take off your fucking shirt, Ian.” He demands again, crossing his arms stubbornly. 

He has no idea what Mickey’s hoping to gain from this so he obliges. He tugs his t-shirt off over his head but then grips it in his left hand, unsure of if he should drop it or what. Mickey’s eyes take in his chest and, as if he’s utterly disappointed in what he’s seeing, narrow with his frown. “Wha–”

“Turn around.” He instructs. 

Ian looks at him incredulously, “What the fuck are you going on about?” He asks, the wolf—which is already far too close to the surface—vibrates with the desire to tackle Mickey to the ground and demand submission. 

“Turn. Around.” He repeats through clenched teeth. 

Ian sighs and does, feeling like a damn prize pony. He stays there for what feels like plenty of time before turning back around. Mickey is still looking at him. No, not at him. Through him. Like he’s looking for something. “What are you looking for? I can at least help you find it if you fucking tell me.” He doesn't mean to sound so snappy. 

Mickey purses his lips. His eyes flit down to Ian’s thighs, back to his chest, and down again. “No one lives out here except for me.” He states plainly, eyes still hunting. “I don’t know of any other people who live out here.”

“Okay?” Ian prompts when Mickey doesn’t answer his question. He decides to put his shirt back on, he’s had enough of being on display. 

“I’ve had a really fucking weird visitor.” Mickey changes the subject and meets his eyes when Ian looks up. 

“What does that have to do with me?” He wonders. “I didn’t tell anyone you live out here, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“Do you know what’s out there?” He asks, once again changing topics with a finger pointed out to the trees. 

“Mickey what the fuck are you talking about?” He laughs but only because he’s worried for Mickey's sanity.

“Do you know what’s in the woods?” Mickey repeats. Ian stares at him mutely. “Do you fucking know what lives out there?” 

“I mean, animals? Birds in the trees, deer and elk and other shit, squirrels, snakes maybe. What are you–” 

“Are you acting stupid or are you really just a fucking stalker?” Mickey cuts him off. Ian goes to answer but stops when he shakes his head, “Take your shorts off.” 

Ian’s jaw drops in astonishment. He stares at him completely disoriented. He begins to feel the familiar stretch of his skin, the buzzing in his body. His nostrils flare once again with the wind—Mickey’s taken on a darker, more dangerous twist and he feels himself respond in kind. “What the fuck are you looking for? Whatever it is, you won’t find it.” He promises with narrowed eyes. 

“You know what I’m fucking looking for, Ian. Where is it?” Mickey pushes. 

Ian huffs and cracks his neck. “I don’t know. That’s the best fucking part. I have no fucking clue what you’re after.” 

“Do you live on your own?” He asks. 

Ian throws his hands out in defeat, “What the fuck is happening?” 

“Do you have family or friends or whatever that you live with? Or is it just you out there?” 

Ian inhales sharply as Mickey turns to face the garden and points at the line of trees he’s emerged from a couple times. He doesn’t visit Mickey from that side. He never approaches the cabin from that side. He knows what Mickey’s asking. He knows what Mickey’s looking for now. He laughs. Mickey glares at him. He laughs harder. Because Mickey really won’t find it. He wonders if Mickey even knows that birthers exist? He’s from the city, maybe not. Education isn’t always what it should be, especially not about werewolves and their way of life. Though, as far as Ian knows, high schoolers are supposed to learn a bit of basic werewolf knowledge like the difference between birthers and changelings and how to tell when one might be feral. So, just to indulge him, Ian toes off his sneakers and strips. Completely. He starts with his shirt first. Then his shorts. Finally his underwear. 

“C’mere.” Ian beckons him over. “You can look, I don’t care.” Mickey hesitates but his eyes don’t. He takes in Ian’s completely nude body, searching for the bite he’s certain Ian has to have. “Come on, Mickey. You wanna look, come look. There’s nothing there anyway.” 

Mickey, apparently unable to resist, closes in on him. He leans in, just like he’s done when studying the most minute details on a painting he’s certain isn't right, and examines every inch. Ian turns when Mickey tells him to. He turns back when he’s instructed again. It goes like that for a few minutes before Ian takes a deep breath and realizes his cock is filling. It’s almost embarrassing. But come on! His true mate is standing so close to him while he’s butt ass naked and he smells so fucking good. Even with the bitter edge of anxiety.

Mickey doesn’t notice—or if he does, doesn’t think it’s important—and straightens up to frown at Ian. “There’s not shit.” 

Ian smiles, “I told you there wasn’t.” 

“Alright.” He nods and there’s a souring of his scent as he takes a step back. Ian’s too quick, though, and reaches out to wrap a hand around his wrist. Mickey tries to shake him, the sharp twist increasing, but Ian refuses to let go. “Fine. Fucking fine. Kill me already, Jesus fucking Christ. I’m not playing this stupid fucking game with you.” 

Ian’s brain stops for just a second. “That’s what you’ve decided on? You can’t find what you’re looking for so I’m a serial killer or something?” 

“Shit… yeah? The fuck else could you be? You’re not trying to tell me you’re just a freak who likes to run for a fuck ton of miles every morning, are you?” 

Ian smiles, “You’re funny. I would’ve killed you a lot sooner if that was my plan, don’t you think?” 

Mickey tries to pull away again but Ian tightens his grip. “I don’t fucking know! I’ve never tried to kill someone before!” 

“Did you pay attention in school?” He asks. 

Mickey’s face darkens, “The fuck did you say to me?” 

“Did you pay attention in school? Or has public education actually gone this far to shit?” He repeats. 

“I didn’t–” Mickey clenches his jaw, “I barely went to school. Dropped out like eighth grade.” 

Ian inhales sharply. “Ah. Good.” He nods in approval. Thank the Gods, he would’ve had to get into politics if this was the result of a failing education system. “I’m not a changeling. I’m a birther.” He tells Mickey who stares at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. “You can either be bitten and changed or born a werewolf. I don’t have a scar because I’ve never been bit. I just am. ” 

Mickey shakes his head, “The fuck?” 

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t know stuff like this. We live a few miles north of you.” 

“Who is we? ” Mickey asks, eyes hardening. 

“My pack.” Ian answers him. 

“How many of you are there?” 

Ian looks up thoughtfully, “Hm. A little less than thirty?” At Mickey's stuttered breath, he smiles reassuringly, “We’re larger than average. Most packs tend to be around ten, maybe a little more.” 

“Great. Fucking fantastic. There’s thirty fucking werewolves that know where I live. Fucking great.” He begins to try and pull away again. 

Ian grunts and tugs Mickey into him instead. He grabs him by his shoulders to steady him. “No one knows where you live but me. And they’d never find you anyway. We’ve been there for decades and no one even knows this place exists. I found you by accident.” 

“If you can do it, so the fuck can they.” Mickey argues. 

Ian groans and lets him go to rub his eyes, “No. It’s… it was an accident but not random.” 

“The fuck does that even mean, Ian?” Mickey’s tone increases with agitation. “Speak to me like I’m fucking five and have no idea werewolves exist.”

“It’s not a normal accident, the way I found you. And no one else would ever be able to also accidentally find you. Not unless the stars align just right.” 

“Again, Ian. I’m five fucking years old. You’re talking in riddles and shit.” Mickey shakes his head with a grimace. 

“Wolves have… fuck, Mickey. I don’t know how to explain it to you! Not without sounding fucking insane.” He bursts. 

“More insane than you and all your buddies planning on killing me tonight or?” 

Ian glares at him, “We don’t kill people. And if we wanted to kill you, we wouldn’t have to wait until the moon to do it. Birthers can shift whenever. It’s just changelings that can’t. And compared to the amount of birthers out there, that’s like five percent of all werewolves.” 

“Oh cool, so you’re gonna kill me now?” Mickey clarifies and Ian nearly changes right then and there just to knock him over and pin him to the ground. But Ian sees something under the mask of indignation on his face. There’s a glint in his eyes. 

Ian growls and shoves his shoulder, “You’re just being a piece of shit for fun now.” Despite the initial flare of annoyance, he’s actually relieved Mickey hasn’t pulled that infamous gun out and instead is comfortable enough to joke.

Mickey smirks, “What the fuck are you doing out here?” 

“I… you… I could smell you. That’s why I found you.” 

“And no one else can fucking smell me?”

“They can, just not like me. It wouldn’t even catch their attention enough to draw them out here. Obviously. No one’s known you’re here for however long.” 

“Nearly ten years.” Mickey supplies. 

“Exactly.” Ian pauses and then looks at him. “Ten years? ” Mickey nods. “Why the fuck…” He closes his eyes and reminds himself there’s no point questioning the Gods. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Your scent isn’t strong enough for anyone to smell you in their human form, and even as a wolf if they weren’t looking for you, they wouldn’t find you.” 

“Why the fuck are you different? Does it got shit to do with your family business? ” He raises his eyebrows pointedly. 

Ian laughs, “No. I doubt it, anyway. You’re my…” He bites his lip. “Look, just. I’m not lying or being funny, okay? I’m telling you the truth and it’s weird for me too and I haven’t told you yet because I didn’t want you to feel–” 

“Will you just spit it the fuck out, Ian? Quit stalling.” Mickey cuts him off. 

“Mate.” 

“You’re Australian?” 

Ian’s lips quirk despite himself. “You’re not fucking funny. Birthers can have true mates. Or, maybe we all have them, we just don’t find them? I don’t know the fucking logistics. But it’s not very common anymore. I only have one pair of true mates in my pack right now and there’s a lot of us.” 

“And I’m yours?” Mickey guesses doubtfully. 

“Seems that way.” He nods. Though it doesn’t seem that way, it most definitely is that way.

“How do you even know some shit like that?” 

“It’s hard to describe. It was the way you smell first. It’s the only way I found you, and it took me almost two weeks to find you again because I was so blind with it. And then I saw you and… this is gonna sound so fucking lame.” He covers his face with his hands. 

“You’re naked. S’not like you can get any more vulnerable than that.” Mickey points out. 

Ian glares at him through his fingers. “You’re the one who made me get naked.” 

“You’re the psycho who listened.” He fires back. 

Ian pauses and drops his hands. Damn it. “When I’m, you know, a wolf I don’t really have clear thoughts. It’s mostly instincts and whatever else. But uh, I saw you sitting up there and it was pretty clear.” 

“What?” 

He groans, “I just recognized you as mine.” Mickey looks at him. “It was all I could think at first. Okay? And then the fact that I’m able to just relax and lay down. That’s not normal for a wolf on the full moon. I’m usually really pent up and can’t sit still. Run for hours and hours and hardly notice it. Just being next to you was better than any of that shit though. So.” He stops with a nod.

Mickey chews his lip for maybe a solid minute. Then he switches to his thumbnail for another minute. Ian begins to feel increasingly stupid. It’s mostly the whole being butt naked thing. But also the way Mickey’s brain might be broken. “So it’s your fault that I can’t sleep every full moon, right?” 

Ian’s laugh is almost stolen from him. “That’s your—that’s the first thing you say?” 

Mickey scowls, “What else d’you want me to fucking say?” 

He shifts awkwardly and looks down at his socks that are definitely covered in dirt now. And also the only thing covering his body at the moment. Should he get dressed for this? “I dunno. Yell at me?” 

Mickey snorts, “Are you gonna fuck off if I yell at you?”

“No.” 

“Exactly.” He takes a couple steps back and crosses his arms. “So?” 

Ian sighs, “I don’t know. If I had to guess, yeah it’s somehow related to our bond. But I already said I only know one other pair of true mates and they’re both birthers.” 

“But I’ve been out here every fucking month for over a year. And you’ve lived out here your whole life.” 

“I think.” He licks his lips and scratches his chest, “I think it’s related to my mom dying.” 

Mickey falls silent. Ian watches as his eyes roam along the clearing and back to him. “When’d she die?” 

“My birthday. May ninth.” 

“Yeah. That month I couldn’t sleep.” His eyebrows furrow, “It was the worst it's ever been too. I was a fucking mess.” 

“Sorry.” He mumbles. 

Mickey scoffs. “It’s not your fault, you fucking dickhead. Not like you killed her.” 

Ian scowls and walks over just to shove his shoulder. “Don’t be a dick.” 

Mickey smirks, “I’m not the one with my dick out right now.” 

Ian follows Mickey’s eyes down to his half chubbed cock. “I feel like a fucking bitch for sale right now.” 

Mickey laughs, “Are you?” Ian raises his eyebrows. “A bitch for sale?” 

“Okay, laugh it up. It’s hilarious you forced me to fucking strip for you.” 

“I didn’t force you, Ian.” 

“You did!” 

“How?” Mickey challenges.

“Would you have believed me any other way?” He already knows the answer. 

Mickey hesitates and seems to consider it for a second. He licks his lips, “No, probably not.” 

Ian smirks, “Exactly.” Mickey flips him off and turns around, stalking back up the stairs and grabbing his stuff from the porch. “Where are you going?” He asks. 

Mickey half-turns to look at him. “Going inside? Sure as fuck not gonna be able to focus on this shit now.” Ian stands there at a loss. Is he supposed to go home now? When Mickey’s collected everything, he huffs at the sight of Ian frozen on the grass. “Are you getting dressed or what? I don’t want your naked ass all over my furniture.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek as he swoops down to grab his clothes and shoes before jogging up to join Mickey. Once the door is closed behind him, he pulls his shirt back over his head, steps into his underwear, and finally covers himself up fully with his shorts.

Mickey emerges from his bedroom where Ian assumes he’s set his supplies for now just as he’s adjusting the elastic waistband. “Coffee?” Mickey offers, stepping around where he’d been standing right in the middle of his way. 

Ian shakes his head, “Fuck no. I’ve got too much energy today.” 

Ian follows him into the kitchen where he watches as he begins to fuss with the machine. “Whatever.” Mickey shrugs. Ian moves to the side where he leans his lower back against the counter. Mickey glances at him and makes a vague sound of irritation, “Make yourself useful for God’s sake.” 

He straightens up and asks, bemused, “What?” 

“Get a couple apples and cut em up, would you? I’ve got peanut butter up in the cabinet next to the fridge.” He’s not even looking at Ian anymore, just scooping his grounds into the filter. 

“Anything else, Your Highness?” Ian teases, moving away to do as he’s told.

“Well since you’re offering…” 

Ian snorts and reaches around Mickey to grab a plate from the cabinet just left of his head. After pulling out a cutting board and knife, he collects two apples from the fruit bowl. “Do you like them peeled?” He asks just before he cuts into one. 

Mickey’s already looking at him with a strange light in his eyes. “No, s’fine just sliced.” 

Ian’s gaze lingers for just a beat longer before he nods and gets to work. As he turns to put the first slices on the plate, he sees Mickey is still watching him. “Hey, what the fuck’re you doing? Slacking off while I’m working hard over here.” He grumbles exaggeratedly and turns back to his task. 

Mickey makes a noise in the back of his throat and Ian sees him moving around in his peripherals. Once he’s cut up and plated both apples, he goes to get the jar of peanut butter and a small ceramic dish to put it in. Mickey’s pouring two glasses of orange juice before he walks out of the kitchen to set them at the table. 

He spoons peanut butter into the dish and then follows Mickey to the nook. He finds a bowl with slices of watermelon already out there along with both cups and Mickey’s mug. “I didn’t know you got watermelon.” He comments when sliding into his chair. 

Mickey, in the middle of bringing an apple slice to his mouth, rolls his eyes, “I already told you I have a life outside of you.”

Ian huffs, “But when’d you get it? I’ve been with you at all the farmer’s markets recently.” 

“You know those people sell shit during the week too, right?” He raises an eyebrow and munches on his fruit. 

Ian hadn’t really considered that actually. “I didn’t realize you go into town that often.” 

He shrugs, “Just go whenever I need shit. Like meat or coffee or dairy or whatever else. And when I gotta take Mara my work.” 

He hums and bites into a piece of watermelon. They don’t say much else until their appetites have slowed down. “Why are you so calm about all this?” Ian can’t help but press. 

Mickey leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, “I mean, it explains a lotta my own weird shit.” At Ian’s sound of confusion, he explains, “Like the full moon shit. And why this place’s always felt off, missing something. And the way I respond to your bullshit.” 

“What d’you mean, how do you respond?” 

“When you thought your dad was gonna die and you bolted the fuck outta here. I was so stressed out, couldn’t fucking sleep.” Mickey shakes his head. “Or other shit too. Like whatever the fuck happened the other week with that freak at the market. You got all pissy and it, like, did something to me. Not like that, fuck off.” He scolds when Ian waggles his eyebrows and laughs. “If anything, knowing makes me feel better. At least I’m not a fucking psycho. I’m just—what’d you say—your true mate.” 

“But…” Ian trails off, not sure why he’s even arguing this. 

“S’not like I’m jumping for fucking joy over here, Ian. I can’t change this shit so I might as well take it in stride.” Ian tilts his head back and forth in consideration. He thinks about saying something when Mickey’s energy suddenly shifts, “Wait, so what the fuck is your family business shit?” 

“Oh, that.” He snorts. “My dad’s the leader of our pack. My family’s been running it for who knows how long. So I gotta take over when he’s dead.” 

Mickey rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, “You said it has to be you though. Can’t be any of your other siblings.” 

He tongues the corner of his mouth, uncomfortable, “It’s… weird and hard for humans to understand.” Mickey just raises an eyebrow. He sighs, “I’m the only alpha among my siblings.” 

“What?” 

“What, what?” 

“What d’you mean, alpha ?” Mickey looks a little put off. 

Ian’s wolf stirs but he calms himself down. “It’s… you’ve heard about the hierarchies among regular wolves, right?” 

“Yeah, but that shit’s been debunked, hasn’t it?” 

“Right. Turned out the dude was studying werewolves during full moons. It’s just a biological thing that comes along with it. We’re born with what we call our designations. There’s a majority of betas among us and most changelings come into a beta designation. It’s not unheard of for a beta to lead a pack of just changelings, but among birthers it doesn’t work like that.” Ian purses his lips as he tries to figure out the best way to explain this. “With birthers, you can kinda think of the leader or alpha of the pack as royalty. It’s not really the same at all other than the birth right thing. So, for instance, my ancestors a really long time ago formed the Gallagher pack and the role of the alpha has been passed down for generations.” 

Mickey sits in silence for so long that Ian starts to fidget awkwardly. “Huh.” Is all he finally says. 

“What?” Ian tries to press but Mickey only shrugs. “Why’re you acting like that?” 

“S’just the word I guess.” He replies vaguely. Ian grunts and raises his eyebrows. “Makes me think of those roided out dickheads who get on their stupid fucking podcasts and talk about being high value men.” 

Ian chokes on a laugh, “Oh Gods, it’s nothing like that. I don’t even know where they got the idea that’s what alpha means.” 

Mickey considers him for a while before he smirks and his foot moves to brush over Ian’s calf. “Yeah I’m getting that. No offense, but you don’t really seem like the alpha male type.” 

He’s joking. And he’s obviously expecting Ian to just laugh and agree. And, humanly, he does agree. Ian isn't anything like those fuckers. He doesn’t view women as objects that should be forced into submission and he doesn’t demand undeserved respect from everyone around him. He doesn’t think he’s the Gods’ gift to Earth and he isn't secretly insecure about having a tiny cock. He’s not like those guys. 

Ian’s wolf, which is already beyond agitated and has been since Mickey demanded he strip, doesn’t know that. It feels instantly challenged by Mickey. It feels like Mickey is questioning his alpha status and, worse, questioning his ability to provide and take care of Mickey. The challenge is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. When his wolf is threatened, its first instinct is to fight. It wants to shift and tear out the throat of the challenger. 

Mickey isn’t inducing that sort of reaction. Obviously not. His wolf would never allow him to hurt its mate in any way. No. Instead he’s incredibly fucking aroused and the need to fuck Mickey into the floor until all he knows is Ian’s name is overwhelming. Gods he wants Mickey so fucking bad. 

His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow and he’s a second from leaning in and yanking their mouths together when Mickey’s face shifts and his scent turns. “What the fuck was that?” 

Ian blinks the wolf away, “What was what?” 

“Your eyes.” 

“My eyes?” He feels his face melt into confusion. 

“They just changed. What the hell was that?” 

Ian groans and rubs a hand down his face. “Oh Gods, that’s so fucking embarrassing.” Mickey waits silently. “My wolf… felt like you were. Challenging it. Me. The… being an alpha thing. When shit like that happens my eyes change. Like a. Warning, or whatever. Shut up or I’ll rip your throat out kinda thing.” 

Mickey brings a hand up, likely unconsciously, and rubs at the front of his neck. “You’re gonna rip my throat out?” 

“No!” Ian immediately declares, his wolf indignant at the suggestion. “No, not you. Just, like, in general.” 

“Well, kinda fucking sounds like it, Ian.” 

He groans again and covers his face with his hands this time. His cheeks are on fire and he can’t believe he has to say this. “I couldn’t rip your throat out even if I wanted to. It’s a mating thing. I—the wolf won’t let me.” He takes a deep breath and lowers his hands so he can look sheepishly in Mickey’s direction. “I just want to fuck you.” Eyebrows raise. “Hard. Probably until you cry. Definitely until you’re ruined for anyone else.” He grimaces and his eyes dart away. 

He hears Mickey standing and Ian’s pretty sure he’s about to be kicked out for that. But then he’s standing next to Ian’s chair and he smells. He smells so good. He smells. Oh fucking hell. Ian nearly snaps his neck with the speed that he turns to face him. Mickey has his arms crossed over his chest and his stance is wide and challenging. But in an entirely different way. And maybe not even challenging. Maybe inviting. 

Ian’s grabbing his wrist and yanking him closer before he can even think. He takes a deep breath and has to focus so fucking hard to loosen the death grip he has on Mickey. “Fuck.” He whispers. “You can’t—don’t fucking—I can’t control myself today Mickey.” He confesses desperately. Mickey just smirks and he’s reaching out for Ian. Ian doesn’t even know what he wants, where his hand was planning on landing. He grasps it mid air and tugs it away, “Stop, I’m fucking serious. I can’t. Not today. Not with the moon tonight.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, breathless, and Ian can taste him despite breathing shallowly through his nose with the intention of calming down. Mickey’s never smelled like this before. He’s never smelled so hot and heavy and like sex. Pure sex. 

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?” Ian’s breath hitches. “I want to fuck the ever loving shit out of you. I want to bend you in fucking half and split you open and absolutely demolish you. I want you to fucking cry and scream and beg. I want you to come more than you ever have in your entire fucking life. I want to stuff you full of my cock and, in between rounds, keep you full of my come. I want to ruin you, Mickey Milkovich.” 

Mickey’s breathing is now labored and his cheeks are pink and his neck is pink and Ian just knows his chest is too. He wonders if his cock is just as pretty pink or if it’s an angry red. “Who the fuck is stopping you?” He tries to take another step closer but Ian shoots a hand out, palm flat on his sternum, stopping him. 

“Me . Gods help me. I am.” He steels himself. “You need to know that werewolves mate for life. My wolf’s already decided you’re it. And if that wasn’t fucking enough, the Gods have too. If we—if I fuck you, I’m not… I’m done. I can’t… this is it. You’re signing your fucking life away to me. I won’t let you go. There’s nowhere on Earth you could hide from me. I would track you down and drag you back home.” 

Mickey’s seemed to calm down. The arousal that had settled around them like a thick fog is receding. The side of Ian that’s very much human is glad for it. It means that Mickey’s actually thinking about it at least. His wolf is frustrated and impatient and a little worried Mickey’s going to say no. 

“Okay.” 

Ian moves in the chair so he’s fully facing Mickey. “Okay?” He prompts. 

Mickey shrugs, “Okay.” 

“I don’t—you have to tell me what you mean.”

“You’re gonna become fucking obsessed with me, alright. Not like you haven’t been for last two fucking months.” He raises his eyebrows in shock. “Oh come on, don’t be fucking dumb. You just showed up one day and never fucking left me alone after that.” Mickey shrugs again. “You’re hot. Was the first fucking thing I thought. S’been a long ass time since I last got dicked down though so I just figured I’m acting crazy and you weren’t into me like that. Not like you’ve made a fucking move at all. 

“At first you were just kinda weird and annoying. But I guess I wasn’t talking to ya, so I can’t really fault you there. When you actually started talking to me and shit though… fucking pissed me off cause you didn’t have to be nice, did you? Funny and stubborn and annoying and nice . For fuck’s sake. You just.” He shakes his head. “Whatever man. I’m trying to fucking say it’s not like you’re the worst mother fucker to be around.” 

Ian isn’t even sure what to make of all that. He almost laughs because what the hell is Mickey even saying? “You like me?” He tries. “You think I’m hot and I’ve got a good personality and you wanted to fuck around before you knew all this shit?” 

Mickey groans and steps away from him, “Don’t make it a thing, damn it.” 

“But none of that means you… I mean, do you even understand what you’re getting yourself into?” And he doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to. Because he’s giving Mickey way too many outs at this point. He should just bend him over and fuck him already. But his stupid fucking conscience won’t let him. 

“Yes, Ian, I fucking heard you. If we fuck, that’s it. We’re locked in. I can’t go anywhere, you can’t go anywhere.” He sounds put out now. 

“I’m not trying to be an ass. I just. This is really fucking serious to me. It’s why I haven’t said anything to you about it yet. I don’t want to pressure you and if… I mean, if you ended up wanting out...” He can’t even bring himself to think about it. 

“I get it. I get it. What the fuck aren’t you getting about it?” 

“This is werewolf marriage, alright? But like, the kind of marriage you can never divorce from. And I don’t mind waiting. I can wait forever if I fucking have to. I really just need you to be fucking serious about this too.” 

Mickey scrubs a hand down his face. “I’ve been waiting for you for over a fucking year.” 

“What?” 

“Every month. Every full fucking moon, I’ve sat out on that damn porch and waited for you to show up. I’ve been waiting for your ass for over a year. Yeah, fine, it’s absolutely batshit crazy. I’ve known you for two-ish months. Who the fuck commits the rest of their life to a mother fucker they’ve known for two months? But I’ve always been a little crazy and never really done shit right. So. If I’ve been waiting around for ya this long, you might as well catch the fuck up.” 

Ian can’t breathe. The air is gone from his lungs and he’s reaching out for Mickey, desperate to have him. To taste him. To consume him. Hearing Mickey talk about waiting for him is doing something crazy to every part of his mind, even the parts that are usually sane and human. His wolf is going insane over it. His heart is racing out his chest in a bizarre attempt to make a home in Mickey’s. 

Mickey rolls his eyes but they’re soft and amused. He lets himself be pulled all the way in. He lets Ian tug his lips down to meet his. He lets Ian have him. 

In what feels like a fever dream, they end up in Mickey’s bedroom, various articles of clothing discarded along their path. When Ian pushes Mickey back against his red quilt, they’re down to their underwear. He straddles him, hands planted on either side of his head, watching as Mickey’s heavy-lidded eyes follow his movements slowly. 

Ian’s teeth drag along his bottom lip, giving himself just a few more seconds to admire his mate under him, their aching erections flush. “Are you planning on getting the fuck on me any time before the moon rises? Or am I supposed to take it up the ass from your wolf like a freak?” Mickey eggs him. 

Ian growls low in his chest and surges forward, shutting him up with a bruising kiss. Mickey’s hands grip his biceps and squeeze, his hips buck up in an effort for friction, and his mouth falls open in a gasp that gets lost on Ian’s tongue. They only kiss for a minute before Ian pulls off to drag his teeth over Mickey’s neck. 

Mickey arches below him and whines. Fingers tangle in his hair and tug. He ignores them in favor of sucking a large hickey in the most obvious spot on Mickey’s neck he can find. Now that he’s allowed, Ian feels stupidly, embarrassingly possessive. Pulling away and looking at the mark fills him with scorching desire. He decides Mickey needs at least two more. With that, he kisses and licks and sucks down Mickey’s chest. A deep red bruise blooms on his collarbone. Another on his peck, just inches away from a nipple. 

“Ian,” Mickey gasps and jerks when his lips close around said nipple. He laves over it with his tongue before gently dragging his front teeth over the hardened nub. He repeats the action on the other. Once they’re glistening and swollen and oh so hard, Ian abandons them. He nips at the soft skin of his hip in warning. Then he bites down. Not hard enough to bleed. But enough that there are teeth marks left in his wake. Mickey jolts and curses under his breath when Ian does the same on the other side. 

Finally, he gets to settle right above Mickey’s leaking cock. It’s red. That angry red he’s thought about. Mickey wants him. He wants him so bad that his cock is crying and flushed and jumping under his heated gaze. He smells like heaven. If Ian gets to heaven, he knows the smell of Mickey’s arousal is what awaits him. 

“Gods.” He moans, taking Mickey in hand and closing his mouth around the head. Mickey bucks under him and Ian doesn’t even care. He just moves with him, sinking down further, smearing the taste of him along his tongue. Intoxicating. Ian’s drunk. If this is what his father feels after one too many beers, he gets it. 

His nose meets Mickey’s pubic bone, hairs tickling along his skin. The smell is most saturated here. Ian could stay here forever, cock down his throat, nose buried in his lust. He pulls back when Mickey’s hips thrust again. He’s so impatient, Ian thinks with nothing but heady pleasure. Back at the tip, he tongues his slit to greedily collect the salty precome there. Mickey gasps and tightens his grip in Ian’s hair. 

Down again, pause to take it all in, up again, taste what he’s been given, repeat. Ian’s going too slow. He knows it. And even if he didn’t, Mickey’s broken moans and please and fucking hell and more would give it away. He’s not trying to get Mickey off. That’s not the point. This isn’t even for Mickey at all. It’s for Ian. He needs this. He needs to taste and smell and feel.

When he pulls off with regret, Mickey’s absolutely gagging for it. His face is flushed and eyebrows drawn and mouth open and Gods, Ian might be gagging for it even more. He moans at the sight of his mate spread like a fucking feast before him. And feast he shall. 

“Turn over.” He instructs, shuffling out of his way on his knees and squeezing his thigh to get his attention. Mickey pants. His limbs are heavy and slow, his eyes are blown, his bottom lip is bitten raw, and despite it all he manages to flip over in record time.

Ian breathes in deep through his nose. He presses gently down on Mickey’s back, prompting him forward to drop his head down and present that absolutely criminal hole. Oh it’s gorgeous. Fluttering and tiny and tight. Ian thinks for a delusional moment that he might not fit. It ignites a fire in him. He needs it. 

So he takes it. Ian’s hands clamp down on either cheek hard enough to dimple the skin and spread him wide open. He takes his thumbs and presses firmly on either side of Mickey’s hole until there’s not a single inch of him he’s not seeing. The noise he makes is deranged before he descends for his treat. 

Mickey groans and the sound is both frustrated and thrilled. Ian doesn’t bother warming him up. He licks the rim until Mickey’s relaxed enough for him to fuck his tongue in as deep as he can. Mickey cries out and jerks forward but Ian’s able to yank him back easily. 

“Jesus Christ, Ian, your mouth.” It sounds like a complaint but Mickey’s thighs are already trembling. 

“Mm.” He hums despite his mouth being so occupied. The vibration makes Mickey’s entire body go slack. But Ian can’t stop. He tastes insanely good. Ian’s never needed someone like this. He’s never been this turned on in his entire life. And he’s gotten around. Mickey should be illegal. How is he even real? 

“Ian.” Mickey gasps, sounding as if he’s shocked. “Ian, stop. Fuck.” He doesn’t. He won’t. There’s nothing on this Earth that could pull him away now. “Gonna come. Gonna fucking come you asshole, stop.” 

And oh why the hell would he stop now? Not now. Not when Mickey’s so close from just his tongue. Gods. Is he going to come untouched? With only his mouth? Ian’s afraid he’s going to bust right now. 

He doesn’t. But Mickey does. Despite his attempt to pull away, he comes with a cry, his entire body shaking. Ian doesn’t stop. Instead, he moves away only to add a finger into the mix. Mickey makes a noise of possibly pain, “Ian, fucking hell. Please.” Ian presses a wet kiss to his tailbone, curling his finger to press directly into his prostate. Mickey flails, “Oh my God Ian please.” 

“Lube.” Is the only word Ian manages to produce. 

“Ugh.” Mickey groans and points blindly at the table next to his bed. “Second drawer.” 

He begrudgingly pulls himself out and away. Once he’s procured the lube, he quickly coats three fingers but only puts two inside him for now. Mickey’s panting and whining and can’t seem to decide if he wants to push back or pull away. He’s clearly overstimulated. It probably hurts more than it feels good at the moment. Despite it, he takes Ian with broken please's.  

“God, I’m fucking ready. Just fucking–” 

Ian cuts him off by adding that third finger. “Not even fucking close.” He disagrees. “You’re not even fucking close.” 

He keens and bows further to present himself even more to Ian. My Gods, he prays. This is a damn religious experience. My own deliverance, he thinks faintly. “Please, Ian.” Mickey’s voice breaks on his name and he’s trembling again. He reaches forward just to confirm that Mickey’s already hard again. With a quick squeeze, he removes his hand just as quickly which garners a scoff of distress. 

Ian slowly removes his fingers and watches with rapt fascination at the way Mickey’s body adjusts to being empty. His hole coaxing Ian back by winking at him over and over. He smooths his thumb along it and Mickey might be sobbing now. With a grunt of satisfaction, he slicks up his cock. 

“Oh thank fucking God.” Mickey mutters and tries to thrust back when the head of Ian’s dick bumps against him. He just rubs. Slow and deliberate strokes, barely catching his rim before moving away. “Ian I’m going to kill you if you don’t fuck me right now.” Ian laughs breathlessly. “It’s not fucking funny. Don’t care if you’re the fucking alpha of all alphas. Fuck me or I’m murdering you.” 

Ian smirks. His wolf might be offended if Mickey weren’t desperately trying to catch his cock and impale himself on it. He just feels smug instead. He’s reduced Mickey, and more importantly his mate, to this mess. “Will you?” He brings a hand to his hip and digs his fingers into it. “Will you kill me? You’ve threatened me a couple times before already, haven’t done it yet.” Mickey whines high and long when he finally dips just the tip in. “S’okay baby. You’re greedy, huh?” He teases while slowly, agonizingly slowly, pressing in. Mickey jerks and makes such a desperately wrecked sound it’s indecent. “You’ve already come once. Yet you need it again so bad you’ll commit a crime for it?” 

Mickey moves in a last ditch attempt to swallow Ian whole in one go. Ian’s growl rumbles low in a warning and his hand clamps down even harder. “God, fuck.” He complains. “What do you want, you bastard?” 

Ian hums, “Nothing. Got it all right here.” He sinks home then with a sharp snap of his hips. Mickey exhales sharply. “Do you know what you look like?" He asks curiously, "Wars have been fought over beauty that hardly touches yours. I would take out nations for you. Continents. There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do.” He runs a hand down Mickey’s back, fingers pressing gently along the knobs of his spine. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And like this? Oh Gods Mickey. I don’t know how I’ll ever let you leave bed now that I’ve seen this.” Mickey moans and his body relaxes enough that Ian feels comfortable moving. 

He wants to go slow. He really does. He wants to make it special—their first time. He only gets one first time with his true mate after all. But Ian’s not a particularly patient man. And his wolf even less so. Besides, with Mickey making such a gorgeous sight, begging and pleading with him for his cock, how can he resist? 

He ends up pounding Mickey like there’s no tomorrow. His hips snap unforgivingly again and again. With every passing second Mickey becomes more and more incoherent. He’s gone from words to sounds to nothing more than shaking. He comes with little fanfare, his body tightening around Ian like a vice before relaxing even further. 

He reaches around to rub along the head of his spent cock to collect some of his release. He needs to taste him. Mickey sobs in protest and thrusts backward into Ian’s cock just to get away from his hand. Ian takes pity on him and pulls away to suck his finger clean. 

He finds that his own release is just moments away. He’d really like for Mickey to come a third time—is it possible for him to do so untouched again? —but he’s waited long enough already. As the seconds pass and his orgasm only gets closer, his knot grows. He’s careful to keep it from catching on Mickey’s rim. He can’t possibly knot him. Not their first time and especially not as a human. He probably won’t ever be able to. But that’s alright. This is been plenty. 

“What… is… that?” Mickey gasps, straightening up on shaky arms. 

Ian can’t hardly understand what he’s saying. “What?” He grunts, thrusts becoming shallower. 

“Your… what’s happening… with your… cock?” He’s turning to look over his shoulder as if he’ll be able to see. 

Ian groans and meets his eyes, “Knot.” 

“Not what?” 

“Knot. My cock. To keep my come inside you. It’s to keep me inside you.” 

Mickey’s eyes widen and he moans, “Oh my God.” He turns and drops his head back to the bed. “Fuck. Yes.” 

Ian has no idea what the fuck he’s going on about but he’s about to fucking come and he doesn’t have the brain power to worry about it. With just two more thrusts, he spills into Mickey. He growls and leans in to bite Mickey’s shoulder through his release. Mickey grunts at the feeling. 

He stays until he’s finally empty. Then, slowly and carefully, he pulls out. Mickey collapses with a soft cry and lies there for a moment before he turns over with furrowed brows and a frown. “Wait, what?” He mumbles. “Why aren’t you…?”

Ian’s trying to catch his breath, collapsed next to Mickey on his back, hand on his chest as he heaves. “What?” He turns to look at him. 

“You’re supposed to… why didn’t you knot me?” 

Ian sobers up quickly. He props up on an elbow and looks at him, “I can’t.” 

“What d’you mean you can’t? I felt your fucking cock just a minute ago, you definitely fucking can.” Mickey argues, looking frustrated. 

“No, I mean I’d hurt you if I did. I can’t.” He shakes his head and reaches over to brush his fingers over Mickey’s collarbone. 

He scoffs, “Not gonna hurt me.” He disagrees. 

Ian raises his eyebrows and grabs his hand bringing it down to feel his knot. “I’d actually split your ass open.” 

Mickey turns fully so he can see it. He wraps his fingers around it as best he can and squeezes. Ian jerks. “I thought you said you wanted to do that.” 

He glares at him. “Not literally. Won’t hurt you, remember?”

Mickey hums and squeezes again. Which makes Ian jerk again. “Is that good? Or hurts?” He asks curiously. 

Ian reaches down to try and pry Mickey away from it. “Good. Don’t do that or I’ll fucking come again.” 

“Really?” He perks up and pulls his hand out of Ian’s. He squeezes for a third time, this one harder. Ian inhales sharply and, against his fucking will, he shoots another couple weak squirts onto Mickey’s hand. “Oh my God, that’s so fucking hot.” He grumbles. 

His eyes are dark again and Ian wants to fuck him so badly. Can’t until his knot goes down obviously. But he wishes he could. “Gods Mickey, you’re gonna kill me.” He groans and tilts his head up to the ceiling. 

“What? You can ruin me for other people, I can’t do it to you?” 

Ian snaps his attention back to Mickey. He grabs him by his hair and pulls him in for a kiss. Despite the way that last round went, it’s gentle and Ian hopes Mickey can feel what he’s trying to tell him. “I’ve always been ruined for anyone else.” He confesses when they pull apart. “Werewolves mate for life. It’ll never be anyone but you. Never could’ve been anyone but you.” 

Mickey blinks owlishly at him. He looks back down at where his hand is wrapped around Ian’s knot. “That…” He’s lost for words clearly. “I need you to fuck me again.” He settles on. 

Ian can’t believe that’s what he settles on. He barks a laugh, “Soon as it goes down. Promise.” Mickey hums in agreement, lets him go, and flops down again. “Can I see?” 

“See what?” Mickey utters, closing his eyes. 

“What I did to you.” 

Mickey gasps, “The fuck did you just say?”

He smirks, already moving to settle between his legs. “Lemme see you leaking with it.” Mickey raises his eyebrows and Ian moves his thighs apart and starts to lean down. “Wanna see how I claimed you.” 

Mickey drops his head back on the pillow, “Dear fucking Jesus, Ian.” 

“What?” He asks innocently. “I did.” And then he spreads Mickey as best he can from this angle to watch as he fucking drips with it. So full of Ian he’s leaking. Despite how fucking arousing the whole thing is, it does something to his heart too. Mickey’s his now. “You’re mine now.” He declares. 

Mickey scoffs, “You’re mine, too, jackass.” 

Ian grins and bites into the soft flesh of Mickey’s thigh before sucking. “Fuck yes I am.”