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Ian has touched Mickey's hands before, when they were fucking, when they were wrestling, when a smoke was passed between them but Ian has never touched Mickey just because. He can't help but wonder what Mickey would do if he ever did. Ian imagines Mickey’s fingers between his, rough and warm and tough – just like everything about Mickey.
So it's not a surprise when Mickey recoils fast the first time Ian tries.
"'The fuck you touchin' my hand for, Gallagher?" They’re walking home and the summer air has finally decided to let them go, allowing a cool breeze here and there to sliver up the hems of their shirts and travel up their sweat-soaked backs. Beside him, Mickey radiates heat and glares back, his mouth twisted in a scowl.
“Nothing,” Ian says and shakes his head. He keeps walking and thinks of an excuse. "I was thinking, maybe I'll get some tattoos for myself. You think they'd look nice?"
Mickey scoffs, a laugh coming on but falters when he sees Ian’s set stare. “You serious?” He jabs a hand into Ian’s side and they stop. “You aren’t going to be officer with shit like that on your knuckles.”
Ian shrugs and smirks, amused by Mickey’s seriousness. A thought runs through his head and he struggles with it for only a second, knowing it would embarrass Mickey and probably earn him a punch in the gut. But Ian decides to say it anyway, “Doesn’t look like shit on you.”
And Mickey all but stares, mouth open. The last rays of sunlight seem to all gather in Mickey’s eyes, making them glow. Ian looks back and watches Mickey. His face softens and something quivers in those eyes. And Ian takes a breath. He dares to hook his finger around Mickey’s middle one.
“I like them,” Ian says, quiet now. He’s still in awe, even as the sun slips off of Mickey’s face and Mickey finally looks away and coughs. But he doesn’t move his hand away, only holds tighter around Ian’s finger.
Ian smiles all the way home.