Chapter Text
When the Milkovich trio arrived at the party the Gallagher living room was already full to bursting, heat emanating from every populated corner and rising to Mickey’s cheeks in a noticeable flush of blood. He knew the moment he stepped through the door that he’d made a mistake in allowing the girls to drag him here. In truth, he’d known ever since he’d agreed to it, but there was a distinct difference between knowing in theory that this family was a collective kind of batshit crazy and seeing Jimmy Lishman dance to Aerosmith with a bra on his head.
“Fuck this,” Sandy said, retrieving the packaged gummies they’d brought over from the pocket of her leather jacket. She tossed one to Mickey and tore hers open with her teeth. Mandy, who insisted she was dead set on getting white girl wasted on homemade margaritas, flitted past them without so much as a goodbye in search of the one other person at the party she could stand. Mickey was sure he’d be spending the duration of his high avoiding the very same man.
“Bottoms up,” Mickey agreed, tapping his bear against Sandy’s. They both popped their gummy, wincing at the overwhelming flavor of weed packed into such a small unit, and rounded the entrance with the steely resolve of a pair of Trojans entering battle.
He knew he was bound to run into Ian at some point — he was in the guy’s house after all — but he was hoping he could at least put it off until he was mentally prepared to deal with such an encounter. There was no harm in keeping an eye out, though.
And there he was across the room, easily spotted from a mile away with his long limbs and blinding hair. He was laughing, getting his chest beat on by Mickey’s sister with what he knew was a bit too much force to be considered playful. There was a thick gray jacket slung over his shoulder, in contrast with the black v neck and dark blue jeans that molded to his mile long legs. Mickey noticed a beat too late that it was his jacket, the one he’d left at Fiona’s the other day.
Almost in slow motion, and entirely too soon for Mickey to fully collect himself, Ian’s eyes locked with his through the crowd. He continued talking to Mandy but it was clear he was no longer paying attention to what she was saying. Mickey felt the weight of his gaze like a presence on his shoulder.
Only there was a hand on his shoulder now, and Sandy was using it to steer him through the throng of dancing Gallaghers towards the man in question. Mickey tensed up before they could make it far enough to be within speaking distance.
“Aye, the fuck’s the big idea?”
Sandy patted his back reassuringly, forcing him back into motion as soon as he stopped struggling. “You looked like you needed some help. You can’t hang out by the front door all night, Mick.”
“I can try,” he said, grumbles of protest falling on deaf ears as each one of his attempts to dig in his heels earned him an elbow wedged further and further into the sensitive space between his shoulder blades.
“No you can’t, you promised me you’d socialize and be civil towards my girlfriend’s family,” Sandy had now secured one of his arms behind his back, twisting for more leverage as they approached Mandy and Ian. Panic swelled in Mickey’s chest when he caught sight of the smile forming on Ian’s lips and he made one last ditch effort at wiggling away from his cousin’s iron grip before there would be no chance to escape.
“I promised I’d come . No fuckin’ way did I commit to an hour of sober small talk with the cast of Full House.”
“Half an hour if you’re lucky. And too bad. It starts now,” she said through grit teeth as they reached what had now become a small huddle with the addition of her beaming girlfriend.
“Babe!” Debbie said, pulling Sandy to her side and settling directly into the crook of her neck. As if she hadn’t seen her this fucking morning. He would never understand their constant need to be so goddamn close to each other at all times. Mickey liked his space, didn’t know what he’d do if there was someone always trying to encroach upon it.
Speaking of fucking which.
“Hey, Mickey,” Gallagher piped up from beside him — the one not currently hanging off of his cousin like a loosely draped scarf. Army couldn’t seem to decide where his eyes wanted to light, switching from scanning Mickey’s (Mandy’s) outfit choice to staring deeply into his eyes. And could he fuck off with that shit already? Mickey was already feeling suffocated enough as it was. “Nice shirt.”
“Mandy got it, I didn’t pick this piece a’ shit out,” he said honestly, tugging at the too tight collar of it with sweaty fingers.
Ian shifted to angle himself towards Mickey, nearly having to shout to be heard over the shitty club pop blasting through the speakers by their TV. “It looks good on you.”
Mickey fiddled again with the stiff shirt. All his readjusting was for naught as the fabric trapped every bit of warmth in the room and magnified it back onto his skin tenfold.
“Whatever,” he said, reaching down to pop a button open and immediately exposing his reddened collarbone to Ian’s flitting gaze. He might’ve regretted it, what with the way it kept the man’s searing attention on an already heat sensitive spot, but Mickey was going to take anything that shut Ian up tonight as a win in his books.
Debbie unfurled from her spot at Sandy’s side when Ian took a grounding sip from his red solo cup and pointed a stern finger at him. “You’re drinking water, right?”
“Yes, mom ,” he said, shaking the half full cup in his hand to jostle the clear liquid inside.
Debbie hummed, momentarily placated, and pulled Sandy along with her to the kitchen as Mandy assimilated herself into the dancing crowd with a parting nudge to Ian’s bicep. He grinned, waving her off lazily, and it was suddenly dawning on Mickey that he had just been left alone with the exact person he’d wanted to avoid being alone with tonight.
Ian leaned against the doorframe, watching him with the steady blink of a reptile watching its prey. And what did they even eat out in the desert, anyway? Bugs? Was Mickey the bug in this scenario? Fuck.
He winced as the volume was turned up even higher on a Top 40s hit from two thousand-fucking-four, involuntarily shifting closer to Ian in his attempt to escape permanent ear damage.
“Why’d you invite me to this shit, Gallagher?” He asked, risking a glance up at Ian through his lashes. He refused to raise his head or — god forbid — get up on his fuckin’ toes just to maintain a conversation he didn’t even want to be having in the first place. Ian shrugged.
“You left your coat at my sister’s house. I wanted to return it is all,” he pushed off of his crossed leg to heave the garment from its place on his shoulder and held it out for Mickey to take. Mickey promptly grabbed the thing like it was on fire and threw it over the staircase banister behind him.
“Fuckin’ hot in here already,” he bitched, tempted just for a moment to unbutton his shirt further. He cast a leery eye at Ian as his tongue dipped into the corner of his mouth. “That really it? You know you could’ve had her text me.”
“Maybe,” Ian conceded, tilting his head back against the wall. “But where’s the fun in that?”
Mickey grunted. It seemed this guy did a lot of things just for the “fun” of them. He wasn’t sure what fucking part of inviting him to hang around in the quieter corners of the house and make a dent in their alcohol supply was supposed to be fun for Ian. But now that they were relatively alone and the elephant in the room had been addressed, Mickey found himself struggling to grasp for topics that either of them could keep going for longer than a sentence each.
“How’s your…” Mickey fumbled, trying to come up with a way to word his question. He scratched at the side of his nose, his free hand flailing in the air between them as if to conjure the words physically. “How are your, uh, lemons?”
Ian’s eyebrows raised almost comically towards his hairline. He popped a leg out between them, an easy smirk forming to close around the smooth syllables of his goading, “Asking about a man’s lemons in front of his family? I didn’t take you for that sort of guy, Mickey.”
Mickey sneered at the remark, clicking his tongue harshly in response to the wiggling brows Ian directed at him.
“Alright, fuck you. I didn't take you for the type to have such a queer sense of humor, either,” although, now that he was thinking about it, he definitely could’ve fucking guessed. What with all of the guy’s suggestive smirks and eyebrow waggling, Mickey should just be surprised he hadn’t pulled something like this out sooner.
Ian bristled almost imperceptibly. “No? I thought it was pretty funny.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular Louis C. fuckin’ K., Gallagher. Get me a beer and I might show you some pity by laughing at your next set,” Mickey shooed him off. Ian laughed, complying without any of his usual smart little comments, and now that Mickey had the space to breathe he let out a slow sigh.
A new song started playing — another egregiously bad one, but at least this time it was one Mickey knew. Fiona was up on the table for it, doing a very drunk, very stilted version of an old dance as Vee and Kev cheered her on from below. And Mickey didn’t know how she did it, he swore he didn’t — but the second Ian was back at Mickey’s side she seemed to materialize in front of them with her trademark worried scowl.
“Jesus,” Mickey flinched.
“Ian. You’re not supposed to—”
“It’s for Mickey,” Ian quickly cut his sister off, handing the bottle over with an exaggerated flourish. Fiona pursed her lips but said nothing, and before Mickey could ask she was back on the coffee table and Ian was changing the subject.
“My ‘lemons’, or rather my lemonade, is doing just fine. Glad to see you taking an interest,” he said, accepting the middle finger Mickey flashed at him with practiced grace. “I finally added some lime and it really woke the recipe up.”
“Yeah, man, that’s great,” Mickey wandered a few steps away, knocking the cap off his beer with the edge of a nearby board game table and following it quickly to catch any foam before it spilled over. Ian watched his lips curl over the neck of the bottle a bit too fucking closely for Mickey’s liking, but instead of telling the guy to piss off like he normally would, he let it slide. Just this once. He did bring him the beer, after all.
Now that they had officially exhausted every point of conversation Mickey could think to bring up, he busied himself with his beer and with hopelessly wishing his edible would kick in so he could skyrocket the fuck out of this situation. It hadn’t been this awkward the first time they’ve spoken. Why was it so awkward now? Maybe it was because last time they were alone, or because last time Mickey hadn’t stolen a picture of him from his sister's phone and stared at it for hours upon end, or maybe it was because Ian was looking at him like that and he didn’t know what to do about it.
So he did what he always did when put into an uncomfortable situation with another person and ignored Ian completely. That damn song was still playing, and it was as catchy as it was awful, so Mickey found himself singing along under his breath as he scanned the living room to see if Sandy and Debbie had emerged from the kitchen. No such luck.
Out of nowhere Ian gave a loud snort, covering the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand.
Mickey scowled. “The fuck’s so funny?”
“It’s, uh,” Ian laughed again, letting the round pearls of his teeth peek out from behind his fingers. “It’s ‘party rock is’. Not ‘party rockers’.”
“Fuck that, man, no it’s not,” Mickey said, turning his ear towards the speakers to listen closer.
“I swear!” Ian insisted, gesturing like the song will appear in front of him and speak for itself. “‘Party rock is in the house tonight.’ See?”
“It said ‘party rockers’. I heard it,” Mickey said just to be contrary. In truth he had sorta heard it say “rock is”, but fuck this ginger behemoth if he thought he was going to get a win out of him.
“No you did not.”
“Whatever,” Mickey took a pull from his beer as if to signal the end of their argument. Ian relented, seeming to know what was good for him, and brought his own cup to his lips to hide the growing smile that pulled at them.
They slowly migrated to the kitchen in the silent minutes that followed. Debbie was dutifully mixing three margaritas when they entered, enduring the distracting press of Sandy against her dominant arm as she demanded tequila kisses. Mickey could guess well enough that that’s what had been keeping them in there so long. When Mandy stuck her head in a moment later to grab one of the drinks she delivered a wet smack to Ian’s cheek, wheedling him to come dance with her.
“Please?”
“In a minute.”
“ Pleeeaaaaasseeee ?”
“In a minute!” Ian promised, chuckling at her pouty face. He truly must have had the patience of a saint — he certainly had the persistence of one — because if it were Mickey he would’ve strangled her whiny ass with his bare hands by now.
Mandy left in a huff, keeping one disapproving eye on her best friend and none on where she was going, as evidenced by the glob of margarita that sloshed over the rim of her cup to add to the endless other sticky stains adorning the Gallaghers’ kitchen floor. Neither sibling seemed fazed by this in the slightest.
Ian clapped him on the shoulder, completely unaware of the warm fizz that settled under Mickey’s skin when he did so. “Hey, hold on, I gotta piss. All this water.”
Mickey stared at the soft red knuckle hair until he removed it. A heavy crease formed on his forehead as he watched him walk to the nearby bathroom and shut the door.
Sandy sidled up to him the moment Ian was out of sight, stage whispering far too loudly seeing as there was a single flimsy slab of wood between them and the redhead when she said, “You tappin’ that or what, Mick?”
“Come a-fucking-gain?” He asked, glowering at the elbow she brought up to rest on his shoulder.
Debbie snickered from the other side of the kitchen island and slid a drink to her girlfriend. It seemed they were in cahoots over something, and as little as Mickey wanted to know about it, Sandy was all too eager to let him in on their scheming.
“Our mission, should you choose to accept it or not, is to get you laid by the end of the night, brochacho.”
“ Fuck no.”
“It’s been way too long.” Sandy took a sip of her drink, teeth bearing slightly at the burn. Debbie nodded her agreement and rested folded arms on the countertop to bat her eyes up at Mickey. He scoffed.
“How would you two jokers know? I got my own schedule.” He weaseled himself out from under Sandy‘s arm less than gracefully.
“Oh you do, do you? What, some kind of once a month Boystown crawl that ends with a very sad and unsanitary fuck in a club bathroom?” Sandy asked. And fuck her, what was wrong with that? That’s all he’s ever needed. “Nah, baby boy. We’re getting you a proper man. With a proper dick.” She jerked her head meaningfully towards the adjacent bathroom.
Debbie groaned. “That’s my brother, babe,”
“Your brother that’s slingin’ nine inches, babe ,” and, well. That was news to Mickey. Sandy leaned in conspiratorially so her girlfriend wouldn’t hear as she went on. “I saw it. He came over the other night for Taco Tuesday and got salsa down his pants. I walked in on him when I came to give him a pair of my sweats. All I’m saying is, call him Green Bay, because the dude is packing.”
Mickey did not even want to start un packing that particular comment. As disgusting as it was, he couldn’t say he wasn’t curious now that the suspicions he’d been harboring since seeing the print in those running shorts turned out to be true.
But attached to the dick in question was a man, a very real man that made Mickey’s guts churn like molten lava but had coincidentally been born with the most unfortunate last name on the planet.
“I don’t care how many inches he’s got, I’m not fucking a Gallagher.” Debbie huffed in vague indignation below him. “No offense. You guys are a family of fuckin’ train wrecks, you know.”
“None taken,” she said, bringing her margarita to eye level so she could suck at the straw without having to sit up.
The sudden flush that came from the bathroom jolted him into action.
“I’m gonna go find Mandy,” he said, already halfway across the kitchen when Sandy accused him of being a buzzkill. Mickey didn’t bother yelling back to call her a bitch in response. He had men to evade, sisters to collect —
And that was when things started turning sideways.
He didn’t remember the next hour even as it was happening. One moment he was with Mandy and another he was sitting on the staircase and the very next he was standing so close to the speaker that it blared through his ears and projected notes onto his brain. He was in the center of the room now, he thought, not quite dancing but as close to it as he’d probably ever get.
Every color was bright and vivid and he focused on them even more than usual. A purple, a blue. A brown — Fiona’s hair. He only figured out some of them as they passed by,
But then it was orange and
Orange
Orange
Orange
played through his mind like it was a new song that had just started pumping through the house. The orange was close and quiet but it was behind him now, moving slowly to the song that was actually playing, something that would be in the kind of club where people didn’t care about public indecency. At a Gallagher party, the vibe was very much the same.
And that was good. Because the orange was under his fingertips now. It slid across his cheek and he held it there, not sure what he’d do if it went away. The orange was very soft. Something else was too against the underside of his jaw. When he turned around to find out what he saw green and that soft pink.
It pulled away gently. Just what he hadn’t wanted it to do.
“Shit,” a voice said through the pink, a lilting cadence to it that suggested it was very amused and very sober. “You’re really fucking high.”
“Einstein,” he murmured, reaching up for the orange again. Its owner allowed for the attention, but those lips stayed away from his neck despite his guiding touch.
“Okay, tiger. Easy there.”
“Do that again,” Mickey said, a slight rasp to his voice he hadn’t anticipated. That pale throat bobbed with a swallow, drawing his eyes to the unmarked skin of it.
“Later,” Orange promised. “For now let's get you something to eat. Are you hungry?”
“Fuckin’ hungry alright, Orange Blossom,” he said, burrowing his face into the neckline of his shirt to nose it aside in search of his collarbone. It ended up turning into a lot more nuzzling than suction, but it made that throat buzz with laughter all the more.
“Uh huh. Come on. I think you could use some fresh air.”
Mickey swayed on his feet as he was led around the couch towards the entryway. Ian snagged his jacket from where Mickey had laid it across the banister and held it out for him, not unlike how a parent would hold the sleeves aloft for a child to slip straight into. Mickey swatted at his forearm and snatched the coat to put on for himself.
Outside it had grown even colder with nightfall than it had been in the almost winter chill of day, sending a shock to their systems after being surrounded with the stifling heat of two dozen moving bodies. Ian immediately plopped down on the porch steps and fished a pack of smokes from the pocket of his own jacket.
Mickey didn’t feel much like talking to him — didn’t feel like doing anything at all really. The step he was sitting on had the same peeling paint as the ones at his house, and it brought with it the same temptation to flay it off. So he did. Being bundled up in the waterproof fabric puffing around him and staring out at the empty streets gave him the distinct feeling of being home. He was much more comfortable doing this than he was dancing in a room full of near strangers.
The flick of Ian’s lighter sounded waterlogged in his ears, but it drew enough of his attention to prompt a long stretch that landed him splayed across Ian’s side. He hummed once, softly, adjusting so he was blocking the path of Ian’s hand to his mouth. The stupid cackle he let out made the redhead purse his lips in the perfect imitation of Fiona‘s motherly concern.
“Doin’ alright over there?” He asked, seeming mildly entertained by the spectacle.
Mickey ignored him, a fraction of the night coming back to him like a lightbulb above his head. “You got a proper dick, Gallagher?”
“I like to think I do.” Ian laughed, extricating himself from Mickey’s starfish limbs with care. “Where is this coming from?”
“Nowheres,” Mickey said. He leaned back over to his side of the stairs and shook his head solemnly. “I mean, definitely not from Sandy,” a Cheshire grin slowly split across his cheeks.
“Fucking Sandy.” Ian rubbed a hand over the sparse hair that was growing out from its buzz cut. “You know what she said to me when she saw it? She said ‘nice going, Gallaghers.’ Apparently she saw Lip’s when he tried mooning the neighbors at a barbecue back in July. I think it’s become something of a game to her now.”
“Gotta catch ‘em all, huh? Some fuckin’ lesbian she is, getting her kicks from checking out Irish dick.” He gratefully accepted the cigarette Ian passed him, taking a drag and blowing it out slowly before continuing, “Gonna be awful disappointed when that road leads her down to old Frank’s doorstep.”
Ian grinned. “Not to mention Carl’s botched circumcision.”
“His fucking what now?” Mickey laughed through a mouthful of smoke, smothering the inevitable cough in the elbow of his jacket sleeve.
“Oh, yeah. He heard the rest of us were cut and I guess he wanted in.” Ian snatched the cigarette from his loose grip and Mickey watched as his cheeks hollowed on the inhale.
“Damn, carrot cake. Know so much about your situation by now I might as well’ve seen it,” so why don’t you just save us the mystery and whip it out now , is what he didn’t say. Even high he couldn’t justify continuing his sentence that way, despite how hard the words pushed against the inside of his lips.
Ian didn’t dignify that with a response, but he made a slight amused sound and his brows furrowed as he took his next drag. His silence felt loaded somehow. Mickey didn’t want to provoke him out of it, content with the tepid calm of coexisting outdoors with the cicadas and the fireflies. There was something Ian wanted to say, though, and neither of them were going to carry on speaking until he did. After a minute he turned, as much as their position on the steps would allow, and squinted at Mickey.
“You ever gonna call me by my name?” He found a crack in the wooden railing and dug his nail into it, attempting a picture of nonchalance he had no hope of achieving. “You do know it, right?”
“Fuck off.” Mickey kicked at his sneaker with a boot and wondered vaguely when they’d had the time to put their shoes back on. “Don’t call anyone outside of my family by name usually anyway. What’s it to you?”
Ian shrugged, handing over the cigarette when Mickey motioned for it without fuss.
“Be nice, is all. To hear you say it.” He held eye contact as he said it, the ring of dark green in them wavering when his pupils expanded, and before Mickey could find an appropriate curse he continued, “Besides, I think you might be runnin’ out of red jokes there, wise guy.”
“I’m never gonna run out of red jokes, chili pepper, you can bet your ass on that.” Mickey smirked through the cigarette in his mouth, puffing smoke around it until the night sky was shrouded from his view by the thick haze.
When Ian made to take it back from him he leaned over and placed the cig directly into the curve of his open mouth instead. A look passed between them that had Mickey shying into himself, shifting away to focus on the flickering lights on the horizon rather than the thunderstorm brewing in his chest. Every star seemed to blink and spin in the formation of Ian’s name. Of course he knew it. Of course he did.
Ian’s hair was amber in the darkness. The strip of moonlight cutting across his brow turned his eyes to liquid glass, the intensity of their focus always making Mickey’s head spin. They weren’t on him now, but he found himself wishing they were. The tense set of Ian’s jaw as he smoked was manly and infuriating and he was the only thing in Mickey’s head right now that didn’t blur at the edges. In this moment, this incredibly stupid moment when Mickey couldn’t tell up from down and Ian was finally looking at him again as he exhaled a cloud of bright whiteness into the air between them, he couldn’t remember why he could possibly be resisting this.
“Gallagher,” he said, not sure if the word had come out of his mouth or through his pores.
Ian made a small noise of approval. “You’re getting closer. That’s my last name.”
“Dick.” Mickey rolled his eyes. He was beginning to notice that Ian had a penchant for turning everything difficult into a joke. Except when he didn’t. “What’s your middle name, so I can use that next, eh? Hopin’ you have two or some shit, drag this out longer.”
Ian’s smirk twisted into something almost pleased. “Whoa there, Milkovich. You think we’re onto middle name territory already? We’ve only just met.”
“You go around mackin’ on the necks of every guy you’ve ‘just met’?” He asked, amused at the vein in Ian’s forehead that jumped out when the words made him grit his teeth together.
“No. No, I shouldn’t have done that in the first place. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were high.” Ian rolled his neck, the line of it tight as he sucked on the end of his cigarette. The way he said it told Mickey he’d just stumbled onto a buried land mine, but he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d done to engage it or how to ease his foot from it so it wouldn’t blow.
“Doesn’t make a difference, carrot top,” and it really didn’t — most of his hookups had taken place in some varying form of inebriation, moreso before he’d come out to his family. He knew what it meant to receive unwelcome advances, sober or not, and as unwilling as he was to admit it, Ian’s had not been.
“It does,” Ian said, suddenly grave. Mickey’s eyes were bleary but they did their best to focus on him. “It really does.”
Mickey decided not to ask what had made him so serious all of a sudden. Instead he took a shot at lightening the mood again, which usually proved successful where Ian was involved. “It’s a party. Everyone’s fucked up.”
That was just the way things went around here. You drank. You fucked. You drank and then you fucked. You fucked and then you drank. You fucked and drank at the same time. Simple and efficient. Debbie and Sandy were a living testament to this, because he was sure he’d seen them doing a little more than just making out after their second round of body shots not twenty minutes ago.
“I’m not,” Ian reminded him.
True. And odd, considering he had no need to drive tonight. Mickey was sure he’d caught little freckled Ian with his straight bangs and peach fuzz shotgunning beers with Mandy at least once in high school, so this had to be a recent development. “Why’s that, hotshot? Leftover from the Army? You a little goody-goody now?”
“Hardly,” Ian said.
It seemed this was another off-the-table topic, which in all honesty relieved Mickey more than it intrigued him. He could already feel himself sobering up, like he’d been peeking through a veil of clouds and was just starting to see through to the other side. Ian let him come to in peace. The quiet was much appreciated after the week he’d had.
What felt like nearly an hour later, after both the Lishmans and the Balls had stumbled over them on their way to their respective homes, Ian and Mickey seemed to simultaneously come to the conclusion that it was time to wrap things up for the night. They both heaved themselves to a standing position with the help of the chipped railing. Everything had stopped leaving colorful trails in their wake, which was probably a good sign. Ian finished off his third cigarette and Mickey watched him snuff out the dying embers on the edge of the porch.
“You know I could knock you on your ass, right, Army? Don’t need to be sober or nothin’,” he mused, squinting up at the six foot hunk of man that would probably lay him flat based on sheer height advantage alone.
Ian smiled. Like, actually smiled this time. Mickey’s insides did that thing again where they tried to melt together into a pile of mush. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Yeah?” Mickey started forward, backing Ian against the railing. The redhead laughed, those insanely freckled hands coming up to hold him back, grip settling firmly around his biceps when Mickey raised his eyebrows in challenge. “You wanna test me? Let’s go, Desert Storm.”
Ian was not properly intimidated as he’d intended. His fingers were lingering on Mickey’s arms, skittish as they flexed and pressed into the folds of his jacket. One of them swallowed but neither could say which of them it was. Mickey, highly suspecting it was him, pushed up higher on his toes and jut his chin out to compensate, repeating, “come on, bring it,” until Ian was nearing hysterics.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he surrendered, releasing Mickey’s arms but remaining within touching distance. “I know better than to assume I could take a Milkovich in a fight.”
“Damn straight,” Mickey smiled triumphantly.
But then Ian leaned down until his breath hit Mickey’s ear, and he was really playing dirty when he asked, “Does that mean I can do it again?”
Mickey didn’t need to ask what he meant, because the hand suddenly pressing its way into the small of his back said everything he needed to know. The side of his neck burned in acknowledgement.
“Fuck off,” Mickey chuckled, elbowing Ian away before he did something stupid. Before Mickey did something stupid.
Ian bounced back from the dismissal like a rubber ball. He walked backwards towards the door with his tongue between his teeth, opening it and poking his head in just enough to take a cursory look around.
“I think Mandy left,” he didn’t sound too surprised by the fact. “Must’ve slipped out the back. Want me to drive you home?”
“I live like two blocks away. I think I’ll manage,” Mickey cuffed him on the shoulder, making to leave until he noticed Ian following behind him.
“Still. You’re a little fucked up, and you know what kind of crazies are lurking around this neighborhood on a Saturday night.”
“ We’re the kind of crazies,” Mickey pointed out, but he didn’t have the energy to bicker over something so trivial with the stubborn beanstalk, so he let Ian lead them over to his beat up Toyota and only smacked his ginger ass upside the head when he tried to open the door for him.
The problem was that there was nothing particularly interesting to look at on the drive over other than Ian. He’d made it countless times to hang out with Sandy and do chores for Fiona, knew the roads around here like the back of his hand. But nothing drew his eye quite like Ian did, familiar yet novel enough to keep from blending into the background.
Ian’s hands drummed a quiet rhythm against the worn leather of the steering wheel. He was about to say something, wasn’t sure if Mickey would like it, and was weighing his options accordingly.
The result was obvious. Given the choice between silence and speaking, Gallagher would almost always choose to flap his gums.
“You, uh...you got a number?”
Mickey rolled over on the headrest to give him an incredulous look. “Fuck kinda question is that? I got a phone, don’t I?”
“Yeah, of course, I mean…” Ian stuttered slightly, just enough to lose his upper hand for a moment. He squared his shoulders, seemingly to steel himself for whatever asinine thing was going to come out of his mouth next. “You should give me yours. Just in case. Fiona’s gone a lot, and, uh,” he gave a self deprecating laugh. “I’m not. So. If you need anything? To cancel, or reschedule, or…” he licked his lips, taking his eyes off the road for a split second stare into Mickey’s own. “Something like that. Give me a text instead.”
Mickey was silent for a long minute — long enough for them to pull into his drive and come to a stop behind Mickey’s old pickup truck. He gnawed on the tender skin inside his mouth until a small bead of blood wet his tongue. For a moment he was determined to say no, to tell the fucker to take the longest walk off the shortest pier, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it. He wasn’t sure if it was the intoxicating quality of Ian’s company or the last remaining fuzz clinging to the edges of his mind like Saran Wrap — or if he was well and truly running out of excuses to explain away the things he was agreeing to lately — but he made up his mind, holding out his hand and waiting for Ian to take the fucking hint.
He didn’t, of course. Mickey tapped his fingers against his palm and cleared his throat impatiently. “You got a phone, then?”
Ian faltered. “Huh?”
“Hand it over, Firecrotch,” Mickey said. Another tap to his fate line, his life line, his heart line.
“ Oh ,” Ian fumbled around in his pockets for the Android, sending his lemon scented car freshener askew when he bent over to free it from his jeans. Mickey plucked it from his grasp before Ian could lay the damn thing in his palm gingerly like he would an ailing baby bird.
“There,” he typed it in with a simple Mickey as the contact name. God forbid he leave it to Ian and get stuck with some gay little nickname. “Don’t blow up my phone or I’ll block your ass.”
“Got it,” Ian’s smile was wide and crooked as he took back his phone, staring at the screen as if the numbers would start doing the fuckin’ hokey pokey or something if he looked hard enough. Mickey used the distraction to slip open the door and step out onto his driveway.
He patted the top of Ian’s car, almost worried when it creaked loudly enough to forewarn damage. “See ya around, Red.”
Those eyes were back on him again, barely visible in the dim street light but somehow just as piercing all the same.
“See you soon, Mickey,” Ian said, so firmly as to be taken for a promise.
*
Mickey’s emergence from his bedroom was punctuated by the soft sizzling of food hitting a pan, drawing him into the kitchen to see his sister bent over the stovetop. Something smelled good, and he told her so as he came to hover over her shoulder. He expected her to say either a variation of “no touching” or “you’re damn right” but was thrown when she swirled around and instantly let go of a bubbling snort.
“Jesus. Finally,” Mandy said, pointing at him with her spatula before she flipped her pancake over.
“What?”
“You finally got laid,” she used her “you’re about as dumb as a sack of fucking rocks” tone with him this time. Mickey narrowed his eyes at her.
“The fuck I did,” he said, flipping up his middle finger at her before dipping it into the pancake batter by her elbow.
Mandy’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Okay, you clearly didn’t since that stick is still stuck way up in your ass. So what’s with the giant hickey?”
“The what ?” He slapped a hand to either side of his neck, prodding for a bruise or any sign of tenderness he could sense.
“For someone who wasn’t getting any action, you sure were gone a long time. I was looking for you everywhere. Sandy and Debbie were being disgusting so I was basically alone in a house full of my ex-boyfriend’s insane family members,” she said, perfectly content to gripe away Mickey’s Sunday if only he’d let her. “I couldn’t find Ian either. Slippery bastard. He’s probably still scared of what I’ll do to ‘im for blowing me off.”
Mickey didn’t love hearing word blow so closely associated with Ian’s name, not after last night. Mandy couldn’t know — she wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it if she did — but he recoiled from the conversation anyway, confident in his innate ability to change a subject if nothing else.
“Yeah, yeah. I get first batch,” he took the plate of finished pancakes from the other side of the counter. She’d already laid out the syrup and some berries in a neat formation on what passed as their dining table, so he hurried to get the butter before hunkering down in one of the rickety chairs.
“Dickhead,” Mandy turned back to her pan, nudging the wet edge of the undercooked disc inside.
As soon as Mandy wasn’t looking he brushed his fingers over the left side of his neck, remembering the warmth of that spearmint scented breath over his pulse point. He shivered slightly, disappointed with the lack of a physical ache to accompany the purpling mark.
Parts of his night were fuzzy but everything seemed to come into focus when Ian was involved. He could reenact their entire time on the porch, what he’d said in the car, how Ian’s mouth moved against his throat. He was probably going crazy, sitting over his untouched breakfast straining to jog the memory of the minute hint of tongue he’d felt against his skin before Ian pulled away. He didn’t care.
He didn’t, not until Mandy sat down next to him and began groaning in earnest about the hangover symptoms she’d more than earned yesterday. Mickey’s shoulders stiffened, relaxing only when he set them into a feral hunch over his food and got to work dressing it up until the pancakes below were barely visible underneath the towering mountain fruit. The first taste he got was mostly blueberry, as anticipated. The pancakes themselves were pretty fuckin’ good though, once you got past all the toppings, but so were most of the things Mandy cooked up in their shitty excuse for a kitchen.
Halfway through an overwhelmingly large bite his phone moved across the tabletop, jolting both siblings from the one-sided pity party Mandy was holding. Mickey must’ve put it on vibrate when he was high so the tone wouldn’t set off his fight or flight instincts. He turned it over to read the incoming notification and immediately angled his screen away so Mandy couldn’t read it.
Unknown number
I had a good time talking last night :) we should hang out sometime when you’re not working. Or stoned.
Mickey slowed his chewing as he read the message. He didn’t need a caller ID to know who’d sent it, everything down to the mid sentence smiley face incriminating the ray of ginger sunshine someone decided to name Ian Fucking Gallagher. Ian, who had woken up and thought sending him an invitation to hang out was the best way to start his day. The text brought back a rush of the painfully gay thoughts that had made their way through Mickey’s drugged consiousness and Mickey closed his eyes against them as if it would make them disappear.
Shit. So much for pushing the guy away.