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Ian’s never been the romantic type. At least, he doesn’t think so. Sure, he’s occasionally thought it might be nice to have someone to come home to, to snuggle up with, to vent to when he’s had a shitty day.
But romantic? Nope. He’s way too practical for that nonsense. There’s something about weddings, though. Something that turns him into a complete sap.
As he stands in the kitchen, helping to plate up approximately 150 salads and 150 servings of chicken piccata with garlic roasted asparagus, he hears the sounds of “At Last” playing from the main reception space. The couple must be having their first dance. He sighs. He’s always liked that song.
This isn’t his first time working a wedding; far from it, in fact. As a service coordinator for Thyme and Again Catering, he’s worked at—and supervised service for—various types of events, from elaborate birthday parties, to corporate events, to funerals. But most of the company’s business comes from weddings. So he could do this in his sleep.
And there’s something soothing about the predictable rhythm of it all—stacking plates, folding napkins, pouring champagne. The steady clatter of glassware, a precise schedule to follow. It’s black and white, no room for error. No time for romantic daydreams.
But does his heart still flutter a little bit at the thought of being with someone forever, every single time he sees a happy couple celebrating their vows? It sure does. Fuck, his brothers would really bust his balls if they knew what a softie he’s become. Embarrassing.
As soon as the song ends, he hears the wedding DJ announce the names of the “happy couple” as the guests break into rousing applause. Ian takes that as his cue to start stacking plates of arugula salad along the length of his forearm with one in each hand, a skill he’s perfected through months of practice.
As he exits the kitchen and enters the main reception space, three other servers hot on his heels, he heads straight for the married couple at the sweetheart table to make sure they’re served first. The couple is seated in front of the dance floor, directly across from the DJ booth, and as Ian sets the plates down in front of them, he glances up to see who’s working the booth tonight—only to have his breath completely taken away.
Ian’s worked a lot of events, and he likes to think he’s seen it all—runaway brides, best men too drunk to stand, grannies letting loose on the dance floor, flower girls asleep under tables. He’s encountered DJs, singers, bands, entertainers of all types. But he’s definitely never seen this man—the one he’s currently staring dumbfoundedly at—before. Because he would’ve remembered. There’s no damn way he would’ve forgotten.
And Ian keeps staring, setting plates down absent-mindedly as he watches the DJ, a man with jet black hair, pale skin, and the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, grumble under his breath as he puts on some generic, slow country-western track to play in the background while the guests eat.
The guy hasn’t looked up to meet Ian’s eyes yet, but Ian hasn’t taken his own off of him. He has a pair of headphones around his neck, and a fluffy section of black hair flops down in front of his forehead, his hair longer on top and cut close on the sides. Ian’s eyes drop down to the guy’s mouth, where his two front teeth come out to bite at his bottom lip as he huffs a breath through his nose and shakes his head, and shit. Ian needs to get it together.
Forks click against plates and ice cubes clang against glasses as people eat and drink, and Ian goes back into the kitchen to retrieve more plates. And even though he’s still highly distracted and heavily interested in the man behind the DJ booth, he manages to get through dinner service without incident—almost.
That is, until it’s time for the main course. Just as Ian exits the kitchen with another set of plates stacked on his arm and in his hands, he hears the music go from soft country-pop crossover—possibly early Taylor Swift, he can’t be sure—to a more guitar-heavy ballad. He recognizes it as “Wind of Change” by the Scorpions. Unconventional, maybe, and a far cry from the soft country-esque ballads that he’s sure were on the couple’s playlist.
The bride furrows her brows at the change, clearly confused, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she stabs into a spear of asparagus and shoves it unceremoniously into her mouth.
Then, as if testing, as soon as the song ends, the DJ turns on something else. Suddenly, as Ian places the last few plates of chicken piccata onto a table at which none of the seated guests seem to know each other, conversation awkward and stilted, he hears the sound of voices chanting: “Step inside, Walk this way, You and me babe, Hey, hey.” Drums and guitar join in and Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blasts through the speakers.
Ian looks back at the cute as fuck DJ, who’s smiling and bobbing his head to the beat. And just then, guests start abandoning their seats and heading to the dance floor. Before long, a crowd has formed around the groom’s aunt, who’s attempting to do the worm in the middle of the floor.
No. No, no, no. It’s almost time for the best man’s toast. Never mind the fact that the best man already looks seconds away from toppling over, he’s already so drunk. Doesn’t matter. Ian needs to start pouring the champagne soon. They need to stick to schedule.
Ian takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Not only is he going to have to talk to the hot guy currently pumping his fist to an 80’s hair metal song, but he’s going to have to scold him a bit, remind him of the order of events.
He grabs his clipboard, complete with the color-coded service schedule, marches over to the booth, threading through a crowd of sweaty dancers, and approaches the DJ.
“Hey!” Ian shouts over the sounds of screaming guitars and pounding drums.
It’s then that the DJ finally looks up and meets Ian’s eyes. Ian doesn’t miss the hint of a smile that suddenly plays at the other man’s lips. It’s a look of curiosity, of interest. But Ian can’t let that look distract him. “Can you maybe not start a dance party while we’re in the middle of the main course and about to pour champagne for the toast?”
The man flashes a grin like he’s been waiting for someone to scold him all night. “Oh, sorry, man. Didn’t realize the chicken parmesan had a set list.”
Ian’s cheeks grow hot. “It’s… it’s chicken piccata,” he stammers.
“Oh. My bad. The chicken piccata… well, shit. That’s a different story entirely then, isn’t it?” the other man teases.
What the fuck? How has this guy already knocked him completely off-kilter?
“No, it’s not… look, there’s a schedule.” He holds up the clipboard like a shield.
The man squints at it and smiles. “Did you color-code the salads?”
“Well, yeah. Obviously. Some are arugula and some are caesar,” Ian splutters as the guy’s smile grows wider. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. Just tone down the music, okay? We’ve gotta do the toast. And then the cake.”
“Alright, Red. Cool your jets. I’ll round everyone up and tell ‘em to sit down for the toast as soon as the song’s over, okay?”
Ian nods. “Okay. Thanks.” He clears his throat. “My name’s Ian, by the way.”
The other man rakes his eyes unashamedly over Ian’s body and catches his bottom lip with his front teeth before wetting that lip just slightly with his tongue. “Cool,” he replies simply.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Thanks, uh…” Ian peers down at the nameplate on the front of the booth, which he hadn’t noticed until now, “… DJ Power Chord.”
This time, it’s the dark-haired man’s turn to blush furiously. His face turns a deep shade of pink, and Ian didn’t think he could get any cuter. He was wrong. “It’s, uh, it’s Mickey.”
“Mickey,” Ian repeats. “Cool.”
The song fades out, and Ian heads to the kitchen to retrieve the champagne.
“‘Ey, listen up. Get back to your seats so we can do the toast and cut the cake and shit. After that, we can get the party started again, alright?” Ian hears Mickey’s voice boom through the microphone.
Champagne is poured, the best man slurs through his speech—just barely managing to stay upright—and glasses clink together as the newlyweds smile with watery eyes. Ian lets out a long-held breath.
As the couple cuts their cake and shoves messy bites of it into each other’s mouths, Ian chances a glance back at Mickey. And when he does, his heart starts to race. Because Mickey is staring at him so intensely, not even bothering to embarrassedly divert his eyes once he’s caught, and Ian’s stomach flutters.
The cake is brought back into the kitchen, and while the servers cut and plate slices of it, Ian smiles to himself when he hears “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” by Poison playing softly in the background. Mickey, the stubborn fucker. But at least it’s a slow song this time.
When the cake has been served, though, all bets are off. Ian looks at Mickey and nods, giving permission. A mischievous grin spreads across Mickey’s face, and “Kickstart My Heart” by Motley Crue blasts through the sound system, practically rattling the walls. A crowd descends upon the dance floor, and Ian approaches Mickey’s booth.
“These songs don’t sound like they’re on the couple’s requested playlist,” he shouts over the music as he leans casually against the booth with his elbow, putting on an air of false confidence as his body inches impossibly closer to Mickey.
“How do you know?” Mickey challenges with a smirk, his mouth close to Ian’s ear so he can be heard over the music. Ian feels the other man’s warm breath against his ear as the words leave his mouth, smelling the faint hint of cigarette smoke and cinnamon gum, and he feels like he might spontaneously combust.
“The bride’s wearing cowboy boots. Pretty sure they wanted you to play country music, judging by what you were playing earlier.”
“Yeah? Well, I was gettin’ bored of that shit. And look,” he says loudly, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the dance floor. “They’re havin’ a blast.”
And Ian can’t argue with that. The newly married couple, along with almost every other wedding guest, is jumping up and down, thrashing and headbanging to the music.
“I guess you’re right,” Ian concedes.
“I love that shit, watchin’ people let loose and have fun. Hard to do with the sappy shit they were makin’ me play before.”
Ian nods, thinking about his next words, and decides to go for it. “So… what else do you like?” He leans in even more as he says it, practically draping himself across the DJ booth to get as close to Mickey as possible and hoping like hell the other man catches the hint.
“Oh, I like a lotta things." There's that goddamn lip-bite again. "I like bein’ spontaneous. Shit doesn’t always have to go according to a schedule, ya know? The salads don’t always need to be color-coded.”
And they’re so close now. If the DJ booth wasn’t between them, they’d probably be touching. It would be so easy to lean in just a fraction closer, and…
The song changes. The opening riff of “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC fills the space, and both men practically jump back as if snapped out of a trance.
Mickey clears his throat, fumbling with something on his laptop. “So you gonna go dance, Red?” he asks, eyes flitting from his computer screen to Ian and back again.
“Nah. Can’t really dance when I’m at work.”
“Well that’s a fuckin’ shame.” Mickey stares once again at Ian, this time with a sparkle in his eye, as if considering. “I got a better idea anyway.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I got my playlist all set to queue up the next few songs. What d’ya say we head outside for a few minutes?”
“And do what?”
Mickey simply pulls off his headphones, winks, and turns around, heading straight out the door and onto the terrace. It’s the first time Ian’s caught a glimpse of Mickey’s ass, and holy fuck. It’s a sight to behold.
Ian scurries after him, and before long, he’s following Mickey around the side of the building and into a dark, secluded corner.
“So what’d you have in mind?” Ian asks, his breaths coming in quick puffs. Because he already knows. At least, he thinks he does.
His suspicions are confirmed when Mickey gently shoves him against the wall. “This,” he answers, just before pressing his lips to Ian’s.
*
Ian’s not sure how much time passes, him up against the wall, Mickey exploring his mouth, and Ian doing the same, but when the music pouring from inside the hall suddenly stops, Mickey’s hands freeze, fingers still gripping Ian’s hair.
“Shit,” he breathes, his lips pink and kiss-swollen. “How the fuck long were we out here? My playlist must’ve ended.”
Ian truly has no idea. It could’ve been minutes, it could’ve been hours, it could’ve been days. All sense of time vanished as soon as Mickey’s lips touched his. But he clears his throat, smooths back his hair, and follows Mickey back inside.
Just as they’re about to step through the terrace door, though, Mickey turns around and points at Ian, a smirk on his face and one eyebrow raised. “We ain’t done, by the way. Gonna finish this shit later.”
And, yeah. Ian already knows it deep in his bones. No way in hell are they done. He smiles. Maybe a little bit of romance has managed to find him after all.