A/N: Right, so I'm a terrible person. Buzzing in and out of yours lives with random, unpredictable and non-dependable updates and chapters. I'm sorry. And that's not sarcasm. But here I am, again. Another swing. The writing bug is a strong one, but my muse is fickle. I make no promises this time around, except that I'll make a damned good go at finishing it before I mysteriously disappear again. I'm gearing myself up for a story that will involve a lot of research and I don't have access to the info I need just yet, which means I've got time to kill. Which is good news for you. Because it means I'll be working on Mickey and Turkish. Yay!

Chapter Six

Fight night. The place was overrun with human bodies, all crammed together, sweating on each other, breathing down each other's necks and spilling beer in each other's laps. People yelled. People fought. People laughed. It all stank of sweat and blood and booze.

And money. If money had a smell, this place reeked of it. It was changing hands so fast that few knew exactly how much they stood to lose or gain. And the fighters hadn't even hit the ring yet.

Mickey was ready.

At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

A very large part of him wasn't really that ready because a very large part of himself wasn't entirely sure what had happened the night before. Every time he looked at Turkish, he had a flash of a memory, invasive and intense, searing through his brain like hot coals. Turkish's mouth. Turkish's chest. Turkish's hands. But it was always fleeting, a flash of lightning in his thoughts. He couldn't know for sure if it was something that had actually happened or if it was an aftertaste of a damned good dream. It wouldn't be the first time he had a dream like that.

Because of it, the entire day had passed in an awkward stage where a very serious conversation was always on the tip of Mickey's tongue. He wanted to know if it was a dream or a reality that was nagging at his fantasies. But he didn't want to broach that subject. If something had happened, well . . . it was damned embarrassing that he couldn't remember it, and wouldn't Turkish say something about it if it had? And if something hadn't happened, that was even worse. Asking whether or not anything had happened would only make Turkish look at him in that funny way that so perfectly stated that Turkish didn't think Mickey had all his crayons accounted for.

Fight night. It was a joyous thing, whether he was ready or not. Because now that fight night was here, he could beat the piss out of someone and take his mind off his troubles. He could stop thinking about the socially incorrect way he thought about men. He could stop thinking about the home and the people that he missed so desperately. He could stop thinking about Turkish and his roaming hands. He could just generally stop thinking.

"I don't think he's listening, Turkish."

Mickey looked at Tommy. Fuckin' git ratted him out. Standing in the corner, looking smug. He sensed the awkward tension in the day and he seemed to thrive on contributing to it.

An irritated twitch in the corner of Turkish's eye. "Sure he is. Aren't ya, Mickey?"

Mickey looked at Turkish. His eyes were glittering in a way that made Mickey think it was Turkish who belonged in the ring. Again, the idea of lying occurred to him, but he didn't think it was in his best interest. Pissed off as Turkish would be when Mickey admitted he was wrong, he would be furious if he had to pry it out of Mickey. Rather than opening his mouth to speak, though, Mickey shook his head slowly. The eye twitched again.

"I was sayin' that you need to keep your guard high, Mickey," Turkish said slowly, his teeth clenched as if he'd burst into a long string of curses if he didn't keep his mouth under strict control. "Fat Albert likes to go for the eyes."

"It's time to go, Turkish," Tommy sighed.

"Fuck me backwards," Turkish muttered, straightening up and smoothing out his clothes. "Let's go, Mickey."

Mickey pushed himself to his feet and followed Turkish out of the back room. As soon as he opened the door, the wall of noise hit Mickey hard, trying to rob him of his focus. The chaos of an underground fight was both addictive and terrifying. It was struggling to take him over completely.

"Stay away from his chest," Turkish was saying, his voice getting louder and louder with every step they took. "There's too much padding there. It's a waste of effort. Go for the head, Mickey, the head."

Another door opened and they were in the middle of it all, now. It hit him so hard that it made him dizzy, just for a second. And he remembered why he got into this grim business in the first place. The fight was half the fun, and a tainted fun it was. The real pleasure was in the crowd. They screamed and cheered and booed and begged. All of their energy was focused on two men, the two fighters standing in the middle. All that energy poured over two human beings. It was better than drugs.

They walked through the press of bodies. Turkish was talking, but damned if Mickey was listening. He couldn't focus if he wanted to. His eyes were on the ring, his stage. This was what men did when they couldn't be rockstars. The ring defined life. One part chance, one part skill, a sprinkle of intuition and a fuck load of testosterone. Mix thoroughly. Bake at high temperatures.

Tommy and Turkish took their places, holding open the ropes. Mickey stepped into the ring, ducking low to get in, then standing up as tall as his body could stretch, bringing his shoulders back, making his chest stand out. He was ready.

Fat Albert stepped in the other side. He was taller than Mickey by about two inches. His features were broad and flat, made for fighting. No sharp bone structure meant less chances of cuts and bleeding. But Mickey didn't have to make him bleed to take him down. But when Mickey heard the man's name, he'd pictured someone slightly . . . rounder.

"Fuck me, Turkish," he muttered as he turned to Turkish. "T'e fucker ain't got an ounce o' fat on 'im."

"I know," Turkish said, taking Mickey's hat. "I told you. The name's meant to be ironic."

Mickey shrugged out of his jacket and handed it over. Turkish motioned for Mickey to come back and he leaned in.

"Try to let it last as long as you can," he said, his breath hot and moist along the side of Mickey's neck. "The more it looks like you're losing, the more money you make when you win. Remember. Guard high, punch high. Now, go!"

Mickey turned and the referee waved him over. The little bald man in the center of the ring checked the bindings on Mickey's hands, slid his palm over Mickey's chest, back, legs. Satisfied Mickey carried nothing that would enable him to cheat, he moved over to Fat Albert as Tommy and Turkish took up their place in Mickey's corner. Turkish looked markedly distressed, his brow knotted and his mouth in a tight, grim line. There was some kind of fear in him, though why, Mickey wasn't quite sure. It wasn't like before, when Mickey was expected to perform a certain way. The only thing riding on the fight was cash, and from the sound of it, he had plenty of that laying around these days.

"Let's have a clean fight, boys. No kicking, biting, gouging, you know. Behave!"

Mickey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His heart was pounding fast. He was ready.

The bell rang and the referee stepped back. Fat Albert lumbered closer, his hands in front of his face. He was too tense in the shoulders, Mickey could see. His punches would be slow. But his stance was right to make each one hit like a jackhammer.

Fat Albert swung first, but Mickey kept his arms high and dodged out of the way. The punch grazed off Mickey's forearm. Another punch hit Mickey in the gut, hitting him with all the force of a wrecking ball and sending the air exploding from his lungs. He buckled a little, bending in the middle around the fist, but he kept his arms high, remembering what Turkish said. Another blow caught Mickey in the ear, spinning him right off his feet.

He hit the mat hard, but rolled with the impact. He didn't get up right away, his head feeling thick as his ear throbbed. The referee was counting, but Mickey was on his feet before the count of four. And the crowd got a little louder.

But now Mickey knew what Fat Albert's fists felt like. And he knew how to handle it.

The next punch came, but Mickey was already out of the way. And he was making a swing on his own. His fist found his way through the opening in Fat Albert's guard, hitting him on the cheekbone. A little grunt was all Mickey got in return and Fat Albert's big, meaty hand came barreling toward him. He couldn't get out of the way fast enough, moved with it, letting it roll off his face with minimum impact. He swung again, trying to get up under Fat Albert's guard, but Fat Albert brought his arms down, forcing Mickey's fist to connect with Fat Albert's muscled chest, an ineffectual punch at best. Mickey swung in with his other hand and caught Fat Albert just below the temple. That one got him, forced his eyes out of focus for a split second, made him waver on his feet. Mickey swung again, catching him right on the bridge of the nose. He was rewarded with a spurt of blood and Fat Albert staggered back.

They stood apart for a moment, staring each other down. They'd felt the weight of each other's fists, now, knew what each man was capable of. And Mickey, despite the naturally resilient shape of Fat Albert's face, had drawn first blood.

The next time they met, they collided like a pair of freight trains. Punches went so fast that no one in the audience could keep track of who was hitting who. Blood filled Mickey's eyes and dripped from Fat Albert's mouth. Mickey hurt from the chest up. Whether or not Fat Albert hurt all that much was unclear. But when the bell rang for the end of the first round, Mickey was relieved for the moment's rest.

He staggered back to his corner, sinking into the seat. Tommy came with a towel, mopping up the blood as Turkish filled Mickey's mouth with water.

"Keep your fucking guard up, Mickey!" Turkish was yelling in his ear. "Up!"

Mickey ignored him, staring across the ring at Fat Albert. His manager kept rinsing his mouth, but the blood kept coming. Fat Albert waved the water away and stuck his fingers into his mouth. He pulled out a tooth.

Mickey smiled.

Round two.

Mickey attacked with renewed vigor, but he couldn't find that magic place, couldn't land that magic punch. Fat Albert's head was made of concrete, apparently. Mickey punched and punched and punched. Fat Albert punched back.

Fat Albert caught Mickey's jaw with such force that for a terrifying second, Mickey thought the bone had snapped. Everything went white and he staggered backward. He saw again the dark alley, saw again the ring of Britts around him, leering at him. He saw the ring leader lying unconscious on the ground in front of him and he saw the crowd surge forward.

Fat Albert got him again and his knees buckled. The ropes caught him before he hit the mat. On instinct, his arms went up, covering his head from any more attacks. His eyes were closed and the world was spinning too fast, trying to throw him off into space. And he saw the cloud darkened sky, saw the drops of rain glistening in the light of the streetlamps as they plummeted down to assault his tender body. The worst night of his life was replaying in his head and he couldn't make it stop.

The bell rang.

Turkish had him by the shoulder. Dragged him to the seat in the corner. Sat him down.

"What the fuck are you doing, Mickey? You're supposed to win this fight, remember? Keep your guard up!"

"Lick me balls, Turkish," Mickey muttered.

At least his jaw wasn't broken.

"I don't know where the fuck your head is, Mickey, but pull it the fuck out of your ass!"

Mickey glared at Turkish, but Turkish, in reality, had saved him. Turkish had dragged him out of that night, that awful night, forcing him to focus on reality, on the match, on Fat Albert and not a dozen angry, drunken Britts. If his jaw didn't hurt so damned much, he'd throw caution to the wind and give Turkish a big, sloppy kiss. Thank God for the aching jaw.

"Keep your guard up, Mickey!"

Turkish shoved him back into the center of the ring. The world was a little hazy, the sounds too loud and yet muffled. But Fat Albert came over, his fists high and ready, even though he was unsteady on his feet from the beating Mickey had handed to him. He'd been close to victory a few moments ago. He'd tasted it. And it made him want it even more. Mickey wouldn't let him have it.

At least, that was the plan.

A fist caught him on the side of the head. He hit the mat before he even realized he was falling. His head was hot with pain, his eyes struggling to stay open. There was nothing in the world that he could focus on.

And then he saw Turkish's face. Turkish was on his hands and knees outside the ring, his cheek against the mat, no more than two feet away. His mouth moved. His eyes full of urgency. What was he saying? Watch the lips, Mickey, watch the lips. And the words came to him, one by one, slowly as his brain struggled to decipher the guttural sounds into English words.

Get.

The.

Fuck.

Up.

"Mickey! Get the fuck up!"

"Six!"

"Get the fuck up, Mickey!"

"Seven!"

Get the fuck up.

He put his fists flat on the mat and pushed.

"Eight!"

He pushed with all his might, getting his face off the mat.

"Yes, Mickey, yes, yes, get up!"

"Nine!"

With his feet flat on the mat, the world wobbled a little too much. He lifted his arms to protect his face. Another hit to his head and he was done. Fat Albert moved in. But Mickey's head was coming back to him, his balance settling him on the balls of his feet. He was ready.

Fat Albert swung. Mickey moved out of the way and caught Albert on the side of the head. Fat Albert staggered, more blood spurting from between his lips. Mickey swayed, the momentum of his own swing threatening to send him off balance. Fat Albert turned and tried to swing again, but again Mickey caught him in the same spot. The side of Albert's face was swollen and ugly, blood matting in his hair. He staggered this time, teetered and just about fell. But he kept to his feet. Mickey had the fucker, now. Fat Albert stood and turned toward Mickey, but his hands were too low.

Mickey caught him square in the face.

Fat Albert fell hard and he didn't get back up again.

The caravan was a welcome sight. It was dark, dingy and damp, but fuck was it beautiful. Mickey throbbed from the waist up and all he wanted to do was sit. And drink. A lot.

Tommy and Turkish were grinning like a pair of idiots. Mickey had ten to one odds of winning by the beginning of the third round, and they'd each put five hundred pounds on him. Fifty thousand pounds now sat in their pockets thanks to Mickey's bare knuckles. Mickey hadn't had so much at his disposal at the time, so his take was twenty thousand. Still, it was a fuck of a lot more than he'd had when he arrived at the fight.

They sank into the cramped benches around the table, the same table that turned into the bed where Mickey had slept that night. Tommy and Turkish sat side by side, Mickey across from them. He slouched low in the seat with his arms crossed over his chest. His legs were stretched out and his knees touched Turkish's. Another man, another time and he might move his legs to end the contact. But not this man. Not this time.

"Fuck me, Mickey," Tommy said. "We should have gotten you into a fight a fuck of a lot sooner. I wouldn't have complained so much if I would have known it was this profitable. A few more fights and I can go on that vacation I was hoping for."

"Tommy, go get some ice from the freezer, would you?" Turkish said. "Those knuckles look bad and we don't want them swelling up too much. We want you fighting again soon."

"Why the hell do I have to do it? Why can't he get his own fucking ice?"

"Hold on, Tommy. A second ago, you were licking the fucking ground he was walking on, now you won't get off your ass and get him so fucking ice for the fists that made you so much money? What's wrong with you?"

"Alright, I'll get him the ice."

Mickey watched Tommy stand and smiled at him. Tommy scowled. If Mickey didn't know any better, he'd swear the Two Tits were lovers and Tommy was throwing a jealous fit. But Tommy was most definitely straight. And Turkish was most definitely not interested in fucking him.

And then Mickey found his way back to Turkish's eyes and he was trapped by the hazel gaze. They stared at each other for a long time and Mickey remembered the feeling of that grim mouth on his. Damnit, it wasn't a dream. But then why hadn't Turkish said anything about it? Was Turkish ashamed of what he'd done? Or was it truly just in his dreams?

"Here's your fucking ice, Mickey. Good night, Turkish. I'm going home."

"What's the rush, Tommy? Fancy date?"

Tommy's cheeks turned bright red. And he knew without a doubt that Tommy and Turkish weren't fucking.

"Actually, yes, Turkish. I've got a date. More than I can say for you, isn't it?"

"My personal life is none of your fucking business, is it, Tommy?"

"Then my personal life if none of yours."

Tommy turned and stomped out. Mickey smiled as he laid the ice over his knuckles. They were swollen to twice their size and the bruises were starting to show. His face wasn't in much better shape. His chest, in comparison, was only mildly sore.

Turkish looked at Mickey. He looked like he wanted to smile but he was too pissed off at Tommy, or maybe he wanted to be pissed off at Tommy but he was too pleased with all the extra money he'd come across. He shook his head and shifted in the seat, slouching too, so that their legs were pressing together firmly, now, side by side, thigh to thigh. He was doing it, too, the bastard! Was he just fucking with Mickey's head, now, or what?

"You want a drink?"

Mickey grinned in spite of himself. "Now yar talkin' a langu'ge I c'n appreciate, Turkish."

Turkish narrowed his eyes. "What that a yes?"

Mickey nodded. "T'at was a yes."

Turkish stood slowly and headed over to the cupboards. He pulled out the half empty bottle of bourbon two glasses before heading back to the table. He slid in across from Mickey again and poured. Furrowing his brow, Mickey ignored the glass and reached for the bottle instead.

"In light of your recent victory, I'll ignore that breech of manners," Turkish muttered.

He was being ironic or something. Mickey ignored it.

"You've hardly said twelve words all day, Mickey? Is everything alright?"

Mickey nodded slowly as he swallowed down a mouthful of Turkish's bourbon. What the hell was he going to say? Well, Turkish, I'm not entirely sure, but I think we fucked last night and the fact that I can't actually remember is driving me insane. Thing is, though, I'm too embarassed to ask about it, so I was rather hoping you would have said something before now. Somehow, that seemed like something that would cause problems.

"The fight," he said instead and left it at that.

"The fight," Turkish said with a nod. He drained his glass in one long swallow. "Well, then. What do you say, Mickey? The bed in here or the couch at my flat?"

"Lard knows I've lived in a caravan long enough," Mickey said, trying to be as nonchalant as he good while his brain screamed Your bed! "I t'ink I'll take ya up on t'e couch."

Turkish nodded again, pausing as he made sure he was hearing the right words. He sucked back the contents of the other glass as Mickey guzzled from the bottle. He wondered how hard – no pun intended – it would be to sleep on Turkish's couch again, the bed a few titillating feet away. It had been a long, difficult experience before, in the nights leading up to the fight. Now that these torturous images were stuck in his head . . . ? But when Turkish stood, Mickey followed.

Turkish led him to the car, fighting the temptation to glance at him each time it came. He gritted his teeth and waited for it to pass by, trying not to think of the sleepless night he'd spent agonizing in his desire. Damn Mickey and his damn drinking. If he hadn't been so drunk . . .

But then, was it a good thing? Maybe it was best that he was reminded that he needed to fight temptation. Giving in now and then was alright, was forgivable, but he had to always keep it impersonal, always keep it anonymous. He had to be sure, damned sure, that he wasn't going to fall into another relationship.

Sure, there was a gay community in London, and sure they were more or less left to their own business, so long as they kept themselves quiet. But the dark and dangerous underworld that Turkish belonged to didn't tolerate any of that. Men were men and men fucked women and that was the end of it. Queers need not apply. And Turkish was so deep into that he wasn't sure he could climb back out, not now. Tommy wouldn't let him. And the diamond hadn't saved him, like he hoped it would.

He got the distinct impression that Doug the Head and Avi the American had fucked him royally. Sitting at the desk and counting the zeros, the money had sounded good. But transfer dollars to pounds, split it in half and spend it frivolously, and all of a sudden, the zeros started to drop away. A nicer flat plus furniture, a better caravan and a new car and his share of the diamond money was gone, save for the 'nest egg' he'd squirreled away for his later years. He could only imagine how Tommy was faring with his share. And the dog? The stupid dog had become toe jam to an eighteen wheeler a mere week after the diamond had been dug out of its stomach.

So he had no choice but to keep working. And if he had to keep working, he had to stay straight, at least as far as everyone else could tell. And to stay straight . . .

But damn Mickey. There was something about him, behind the nice face and nicer body, something sharp and dangerous that made him thrilling mixed with something sad and lonely that piqued the male need to protect. He was a man grieving, but he was a Pikey. And Turkish wanted him.

He'd almost had him, too. But Mickey spent the night puking his guts out. He'd just about passed out on the bathroom floor when Turkish practically dragged him back to the couch. And the next morning, he'd said nothing. Either he didn't remember or he was too embarrassed. If he didn't remember, though, there was a good chance that he didn't remember everything Turkish had said. If that was the case, Turkish wanted to leave well enough alone. Mickey would only be with him for a little longer, anyway. Before long, he'd have enough money for a flat of his own, or maybe a car, or maybe a brand new caravan. And the Pikey in him would make the urge to disappear unable to ignore. Then where would Turkish be? Dumped. Alone. And queer.

So he drove back to his flat without a word. Mickey had retreated into himself, sitting slouched in the car seat with his hat tipped down over his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest again, but his hands carefully balanced on his own arms lest he hurt those swollen knuckles.

Glancing over, Turkish saw that Mickey had brought the bottle of bourbon. It was almost empty. There was a thirst in Mickey that was starting to scare Turkish, which stood to be only another reason why not to get involved on an emotional level. He couldn't handle another alcoholic in his life.

Back at the flat, he parked and climbed out. Mickey climbed out and staggered when his feet hit the pavement. Up the stairs, they climbed. Tommy was probably out, blowing his cash on whatever chick he'd found, having a damned good time. But all Turkish could think about was his own bed. He couldn't go out, not tonight. He was thinking too much about Mickey and thinking about Mickey would land him in the wrong kind of bars.

He closed the door behind him, locking it and kicking off his shoes. Mickey was already on the couch. Stifling a sigh, Turkish went into his room, stripping out of his clothes. He'd taken off his coat, his socks and his pants when he heard Mickey fumbling with the lock. Rolling his eyes, he stepped back out into the living room. Mickey was trying to get back out and was having a hard time of it.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Turkish muttered.

"Fer anot'er drink," Mickey mumbled, half into his own chest. He was hard enough to understand when he was sober. "Let me out."

"I think you've had enough for tonight, Mickey," Turkish sighed. "Get some sleep before you keel over."

Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was the left over adrenaline from the fight. Maybe it was the pent up sexual tension that was so obviously eating at him in the pit of his stomach. But whatever it was, Mickey snapped. He spun on his heel and threw the bottle at Turkish's head. Turkish flinched, but there was no need. The bottle missed wildly, smashing against the wall and showering the floor with shards of glass and a small puddle of bourdon.

"Fuck ya, Turkish!" he shrieked. "Yar not me fuckin' ma! Put her in t'e ground already, 'cause o' ya! An' yar not family, took t'at from me, too! Not even a fuckin' friend! So what t'e fuck does t'at make ya? Huh? What t'e fuck d'ya t'ink y'are t'at makes ya t'ink ya can tell me what t'e fuck I can do?"

Turkish furrowed his brow, fighting against his own anger long enough to figure out what, exactly, Mickey had just said. He held up his hands as his brain cranked away, changing mangled syllables and replacing lost ones until he had proper words instead of Pikey slur.

"Calm then fuck down, Mickey," Turkish said, the anger bubbling just below the surface, ready to snap, but he kept it under control. "It was just a suggestion. Now sit the fuck down before you hurt yourself."

"Ya'll be t'e only one hurtin'," Mickey growled, his body tight and coiled like the body of a tiger.

"It wasn't a threat, Mickey, just a genuine concern," Turkish said. "Sit down and calm down."

He sneered, but somehow the sneer slowly contorted until his face was a mask of pain. Following Turkish's advice, though, Mickey staggered over to the couch and slumped down. He leaned forward, holding his head in his hands and taking long, slow breaths. Turkish quietly breathed a sigh of relief. Angry as he had been in response to Mickey's explosion, facing down an angry Pikey felt a hell of a lot like staring down the business side of a loaded gun. It wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat.

He eased closer to the couch from behind, walking softly as if he could sneak up on Mickey's hostility and catch it off guard. Ever since he'd brought Mickey home, the Pikey had been a loose cannon – more so than usual. He spent long stretches of time inside his own skull, staring off into space and hardly paying attention to his surroundings, if at all. When he did pay attention, he could be light and bubbly, joking with him and Tommy, laughing at all the appropriate places. But Turkish knew an act when he saw one and Mickey was faking it. His anger was always right there, just below the surface, waiting to strike. Like now, it needed nearly no provoking at all. It wanted something, searched for a victim. And apparently, Fat Albert hadn't been enough to satiate it.

Turkish reached the couch, peering over the back. Mickey's shoulder's weren't as tense anymore, his head still in his hands. His chest heaved as if he was struggling to breathe. He was a man on the brink, a man about ready to break.

He eased around the edge of the couch, sinking down beside Mickey. He leaned close, wanting to touch Mickey, to let him know that he wasn't alone, that whatever weight he bore, he wasn't bearing by himself. But he was also afraid of touching Mickey and alighting his body with electric desire. This clearly wasn't the time.

"Mickey . . ."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to tell Mickey that had cared without actually telling him that he cared. He didn't know what would make the situation worse and what would make it better. Without any words, he was left to touch. Touch was the universal language. When words failed, a gentle touch could speak volumes. So Turkish reached out and touched Mickey, putting a hand on Mickey's back. His desire remained dormant, sensing that the situation was too delicate.

Mickey exploded at the touch, though. His back arched and he shot to his feet, knocking Turkish's hand away. Turkish sat back, powerless to do anything but watch. Mickey spun on him, the anger back and written all over his face.

"I don't fuckin' well get ya, Turkish," Mickey said. "D'ya want t' fuck me or not?"

Turkish had to pause and let his brain catch up. He was almost certain he knew what Mickey had said, but he wanted to make sure there was no shadow of doubt. This was exciting, dark, exciting, dangerous, exciting territory and there was no room for error.

"What?" he asked softly.

Mickey went on, apparently oblivious Turkish had said anything. "I mean, fuck me. I git all t'e fuckin' signals from ya and I t'ink somet'in' happened last night, but I can't fuckin' remembar, an' I keep thinkin' t'at if somet'in' did happen, why t'e fuck haven't ya said somet'in' about it? I've got enough fuckin' problems here, Turkish, I don't need ya fuckin' wit' my head like t'is."

Turkish blinked. He should have known something like this was coming. Mickey didn't remember what had happened the night before and they had been tense and awkward all damned day. He should have known that it would explode as soon as he added booze to Mickey's brain. And yet somehow, he hadn't seen it coming. And he was at a complete loss for words.

Since his brain couldn't pull up anything better to say, he went with his last response.

"What?"

"Fuck, Turkish, would ya say somethin' else?" Mickey snapped.

Turkish opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't think of anything. He truly understood the phrase 'brain dead' in that moment. He didn't really know why his brain had decided to stop working. Maybe the force of Mickey's anger had brought a level of intimidation that made it hard to think, or maybe because it was so long he actually talked about that part of him. But no words seemed to fit the situation, no matter how hard he tried to think.

Mickey started to deflate. Turkish saw fear in his eyes, a wild, primal fear that made Mickey take a step back, as if he was afraid that it was now Turkish's turn to explode. It was almost as if he thought Turkish's loss for words was caused by anger, repulsion.

Turkish shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. Spreading his hands to show there was nothing hostile in his intent, he stepped closer. Mickey stared at him, trying to read him, the alcohol maybe making his brain too sluggish to properly upraise the situation.

"Mickey," Turkish said, but the words stopped there. What else was there to say? How could he put what he was thinking into words?

Mickey's brain seemed to kick into gear and the fear was gone. He stepped closer, sucking in a deep breath, so deep that it seemed like he was getting ready take a deep, deep dive into icy cold water. Just as Turkish began to sense the sudden explosion of chemistry between them, Mickey leaned in to catch Turkish's mouth in a searing kiss. Turkish groaned against Mickey, feeling his body awaken – again. He'd felt like this, this rush of hot pleasure, just the night before, but it had come screeching to a halt too suddenly. And his body had been begging for a conclusion since. Now the conclusion had arrived. He hoped. Just so long as Mickey didn't get sick again.

Mickey folded his hands behind Turkish's neck, dragging him into the kiss with such urgency that it seemed like he hoped the mounting passion would cure all his heartaches. Turkish groaned again, the heat of it so intense that he felt like he was getting burned. His heart raced, pounded. He could feel it in his throat, in his fingers, in his gut, in his toes. And when Mickey pressed his body close, Turkish could swear he could feel Mickey's heartbeat, too.

Mickey broke from the kiss to catch his breath, then plunged in again. Turkish reached out to him. The urgency was infectious and soon he found he wanted Mickey so bad that it hurt. It hurt the very fibers of his being. He slid his hands up under Mickey's shirt, along the small of his back and then higher, until his fingers reached Mickey's shoulder blades. Here and there, he could feel the raised bump of scar tissue where the lines of his tattoos crossed his flesh. And then there was the heat of him, the heat of his body that Turkish could feel through his clothes. He desperately wanted to feel more. He tugged at that shirt, trying to bring it up over Mickey's head, but their lips were locked and he couldn't break the kiss long enough to get rid of that damned shirt.

Again, Mickey broke the kiss and lifted his arms up high, wriggling out of his shirt with Turkish's help. And then his hands attacked Turkish's shirt, peeling it from his body, pulling it so hard that a button flew off. Their bare chests pressed together, flesh against flesh, the thin sheen of sweat on each of their bodies mingling together.

This time, Turkish broke for air, his entire body aching with desire. Getting rid of their shirts was only a small accomplishment. The real prize was the pants. He needed to get rid of Mickey's pants.

Mickey, apparently, had the same thought.

His hands plunged down, sliding along Turkish's chest. His fingers slipped beneath the band of Turkish's boxers, fingernails scraping softly against the skin of Turkish's hips. The contact made his skin feel tight and tingly all over, all the hairs standing on end. But Mickey was teasing him. His fingers trailed close, so close, but not close enough. The bastard.

Turkish reached for Mickey's belt, but Mickey batted his hands away. Then his fingers went back to teasing, back to suggesting. Turkish groaned, reaching for Mickey again, leaning for a kiss, but Mickey shoved him away. Mickey's lips touched Turkish's shoulder, his mouth moist and hot and his hands . . . Turkish groaned and reached around to Mickey's back, trying to drag Mickey closer. But again Mickey thwarted him.

"Fuck, Mickey," Turkish breathed.

"Now ya can talk, can ya?" Mickey murmured against Turkish's shoulder.

Turkish reached up, sliding his fingers through Mickey's hair and grabbing a fistful. He pulled Mickey's head back, watching with delight as Mickey's nose wrinkled as his scalp no doubt prickled with a sharp but mild pain. Turkish swooped in for the kiss, not letting Mickey escape. Mickey groaned, his tongue snaking into Turkish's mouth as his hands slid back up to Turkish's chest. Turkish slid his other hand along the small of Mickey's back, along the subtle curve and down to the hem of his pants. He tried to get his fingers inside, but the belt was too tight. With a grunt, he reached down, making another try for that belt, but Mickey was ready for that. His fighter's muscles made him move fast, batting Turkish's hands away. Turkish made a guttural sound in the back of his throat, feeling frustration bubble in him. It was a game, of course, a game of dominance and control, almost as if Mickey was getting revenge for the long day's confusion he felt. It was a game that Turkish probably wasn't going to win.

Mickey pushed Turkish's boxers away, letting them fall to the floor. Turkish sucked in a deep breath, looking Mickey in the eye and seeing a mischief there that made his heart skip a beat. That one look was more thrilling than anything before it, more exciting than any kiss or touch. It was the look of a man who knew how to please – and how to frustrate, torture and tease.

And then he wasn't looking Mickey in the eye anymore. He was looking down at the top of his head. Mickey crouched in front of him, his hands on Turkish's hips as if to keep himself steady, his breath hot and moist on the head of Turkish's cock. Turkish clenched his teeth, his body tensing as he reached down, sliding his fingers through Mickey's hair. His body tingled with pleasure and anticipation, but he didn't want to make too much noise, too much fuss, just in case Mickey decided to take it as an invitation to torture further.

His bottom lip brushed against the head, soft and warm, sending a jolt of pleasure through Turkish's body. His knees were weak as he struggled against the need for more. Don't give Mickey that much power, he told himself. But Mickey's tongue snaked out, sliding along the head for a brief moment. Turkish groaned, his fingers curling around Mickey's silky hair. Instead of making Mickey back off, it seemed to egg him on, and he opened his mouth and took Turkish's cock in, his tongue flicking across the head as his lips slid along the shaft. Turkish groaned again, his toes curling painfully against the floor.

Mickey sucked and licked with all the skill of an expert and soon Turkish felt pressure building in his body, the pressure of release on its way. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing heavy, Mickey's pace getting quicker and quicker. Turkish's entire body pulsed with pleasure and his knees quivered, threatening to dump him on the floor. And then Mickey stopped. His mouth came away, leaving Turkish's cock bare and cold, Mickey's spit drying on him fast. Turkish whimpered in spite of himself, his entire body trembling ever so slightly, just beneath the skin. Mickey stood and grabbed Turkish's shoulders, dragging him in for another kiss. Turkish groaned again, wrapping his arms around Mickey and dragging him closer, pressing their bodies together, letting Mickey feel his need. But Mickey knew it was there, surely. He'd created it, after all.

Mickey broke the kiss, taking the slightest step back. The belt finally opened, his pants falling to the floor, quickly followed by his briefs. And there he was, naked, hard and perfect.

He stepped in, dragging Turkish into another kiss. Turkish felt the desire in the kiss, stronger than anything else he'd felt before, stronger than anything that Turkish had experienced. Mickey wanted this like other people wanted air. Turkish let his hands roam Mickey's body, touching every smooth muscle, every gentle curve, every inch of flesh, trying to give Mickey what he craved while he enjoyed the body against him.

Mickey broke the kiss, panting, his cheeks flushed, his mouth gleaming. But his eyes were alive in a way Turkish hadn't seen from him ever before. He smiled, a slow, sensual smile and leaned in, his lips hovering beside Turkish's ear.

"Now, fuck me, Turkish," he breathed.

Turkish happily obliged.

Merry Christmas

-Tashue