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The first time Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich met, they crashed together with force that seemed to shatter the world they were in. And no, that wasn’t as romantic as it sounded it. It was violence, true violence, which saturated their first meeting. This wasn't two strangers meeting at a cutesy coffee shop. It was sweat and blood and testosterone as ‘Batshit Crazy’ Ian Gallagher and Mickey ‘Wild Dog’ Milkovich met in the ring, intent to destroy each other.
This was street fighting; there was less technique and more brute strength and aggression. Ian and Mickey weren’t just beating at each other, they were releasing all their anger and frustration as every street fighter always seemed to do. Ian clenched his teeth slightly every time his ‘fans’ yelled out his nickname. They meant well, but it hit a little too close to home. And Mickey? Every time he hit Ian, he was just imagining it was his sister’s abusive boyfriend, who she wouldn’t let him touch no matter how much Mickey threatened to teach him a lesson. Mickey won out in the end, with a disarming hit to the throat that probably wouldn’t have been encouraged had their fight been more official.
It wasn't until the adrenaline faded that Mickey really saw the red head now lying on the floor. He grinned slightly at his having disarmed this huge, built man with his much shorter frame. Mickey was nothing if not a sport; especially when it came to shirtless men with delicious torsos. He went forward to help the guy up. When he rose, the man smiled brilliantly, apparently not too down about losing. “Hey, I’m Ian.” “Mickey.”
Sometimes, as Mickey’s sister knew far too well, love turned into violence. This time, their very own one in a million, violence turned to love.
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It wasn't easy being gay in a neighbourhood, and a profession like theirs. They weren’t flaunting it, but that definitely didn't slow them down. What started off as casual hook-ups turned to nights spent over and movie dates and Ian calling him when he needed a ride to his therapist and Mickey showing up at his place when he had nightmares about Terry. Slowly but steadily, their relationship turned into something surprisingly pure and real. Neither boy had really had a healthy relationship in their lives. Ian had a line of ‘geriatric viagroids’, as Mickey so nicely put it, and Mickey’s sex life had been merely meaningless hook-ups. Now, the something between them was different and new, and neither was prepared to lose it.
So they stopped fighting it. It was easier for Ian than Mickey, to lose himself in the fact that they cared about each other. Mickey had had homophobia drilled into his bones by his father, and sometimes he would pull away and snap and Ian would try his best to hide his hurt, but fail. Then Mickey would apologise and promise to try to be better and Ian would assure him he was fine as he was. Ian told Mickey he loved him a long time before Mickey could. It would have made him insecure that Mickey never said it back, if he hadn’t showed his love through every action. Mickey was always more of a man of action than words.
Ian heard the I love you when Mickey woke up at six every morning so he could bring Ian his pills, even though he hated mornings and would preferably sleep till much later. He heard the I love you when Mickey rolled his eyes, but agreed to watch a Van Damme movie anyway, because Ian liked it better. He heard it when the nervous, still closeted boy returned to his old neighbourhood to visit Ian’s family, even though Terry haunted every street corner. He heard the I love you when Mickey came over to his house because try as he might, he couldn’t sleep without Ian holding him.
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Mickey’s ‘coming out’ wasn't what Ian had hoped for. Ian had never pushed Mickey to, never wanting to shove him out of the closet without being ready for Ian’s sake. And Ian hated that day. He hated it. It was the day he almost lost Mickey. He almost lost him.
Mickey didn't have his head in the game. Ian sat in the front row, trying obstinately to avoid the thought that it was probably because of their fight earlier, over something as stupid as Mickey not doing the dishes. The fighter he was up against was subpar at best; all bets were in Mickey’s favour because not anyone, not even Ian, thought he might lose.
If the hard kick to Mickey’s face had Ian moving forward to sit at the edge of his seat, the hit to his back and the sickening crack that followed had him crying out and rushing forward. Spine injuries were serious. The match was over, everyone knew it as well as he did, so he didn't hold back. He just ran into the ring and tried his best to support Mickey’s limp body while still assessing the damage. It didn't look good. Christ, even with Ian’s limited knowledge, he knew it wasn't good. Mickey’s eyes were wide open, looking at him, but not really. Ian’s eyes started to water and he carded his fingers through Mickey’s sweat damp hair. The fact that there was no way they could pass of their current position as platonic didn't even cross his mind. He needed to hold Mickey in that moment. He vaguely heard someone announce they had called an ambulance (street fights didn't exactly have paramedics waiting.)
“Mickey, baby, please,” Ian said quietly, not able to raise his voice because of the heavy lump in his throat, “You’re gonna be fine, Mick, you’ll be fine.” Tears escaped in a way he didn't want them to and they fell onto Mickey’s face, painting him in colorless streaks. Mickey’s eyes were fluttering shut, but his fucking brave love kept pulling them open to his best effort. “Hold me, Ian,” was the last thing he said before he closed his eyes, “Hold me, I’m going to sleep.”
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It wasn't until three months later that Mickey could even stand up, after surgery and endless physical therapy. Mickey hated himself for a while there, knowing he would never fight again. At least not in the foreseeable future. Ian just wished he would see it the way Ian did, see that he wouldn’t have been the only one to die if things had gone that way. But Ian tried to be patient, tried to see it though Mickey’s eyes, and understand his pain and bitterness.
But even patient men like Ian had their limits. One night, when he had been unable to get up to go the bathroom himself, Mickey had said, “Would’ve been better off dead.”
Ian snapped. There was no other word for it. It certainly wasn't the first time Mickey had expressed this sentiment, but maybe it was because he was tired and done with hearing it. Ian snapped like Mickey had never seen before. “How the fuck can you be so selfish, Mick!” he yelled, voice echoing loudly in the small bathroom where Mickey was sitting on the (now closed) seat. Mickey flinched. “You’re a selfish piece of shit, Mickey Milkovich. Do you know how it fucking felt to sit there and hold you while you faded away in front of me?! Do you know how it felt to wait outside for hours while they tried to save you?! Do you know how it feels every time you tell me you would rather die than live like this?!”
“You,” Ian continued, pressing a finger against Mickey’s chest, “Are not allowed to leave me, Mickey. Not now, not ever. If you go, I go too. So you’re just going to have to make that fucking choice.” He stood up, wiping the wetness on his cheeks, and helped his silent lover up. They went back to the hospital bed which had been their home for months, and Ian lay next to him, though the nurses always shook their head at him when they saw them curled up together in the morning. “Now quit your bitching and let me sleep, Milkovich.”
“I love you.”
“Fuck off. I’m so mad at you. I love you, too, asshole.”
“Hold me.”
“Always.”