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The wind was particularly harsh tonight as the bleak Chicago streets were filled with heavy footsteps and people lurking behind alleyways as police sirens sounded in the distance.
The alibi was in full swing, alcohol being passed around, dirty jokes exchanged, and dingy lights too bright.
The rain was light as it fell slowly, like dew at sunset, occasionally hitting Mickey's nose before sliding down the small slope onto his raw bitten lips.
His shoulders shook, but he'd blame it on the cold.
He sniffled, but he'd blame it on a cold.
Tears fell, but he'd say it was the rain.
Ian's jacket was enveloping his smaller frame, providing more pain than comfort.
The forest green fabric fell down his shoulders and covered his stubby fingers, leaving him to seem smaller than he actually is.
The heavy scent of lavender, vanilla, and spring rain surrounded Mickey, even in the streets that smell more of piss and booze.
Ian always smelt like the first spring breeze that hits your face after a long winter. So light and pure it's hardly noticeable, but when it's gone you remember it with every detail and crave it.
He wonders if Ian is standing outside in the rain, or watching it from his window.
His red hair damp with the tears of the November sky as they fall upon his pale skin, covered in constellations of freckles that have faded over the years.
But Mickey remembers early December mornings when the sun was barely rising over the powder -white snow covering everything in its way.
Ian was his sole source of heat as the lanky boy stole all of the covers and cocooned himself into the thin quilt.
He'd always awake before Ian and let his eyes wonder to the freckles that couldn't be seen unless you were this close.
He remembers the warm breath that would fan his neck as he laid his head close to Ian and just listened to his breathing, the small murmurs that left his lips and his smiles that curled the slightest.
He hates the envy he feels at the rain for being able to caress Ian's skin like he himself once did. The bitter cold droplets kissing every freckle like Mickey wants to.
He hates the wind for being able to ruffle up Ian's boyish, floppy hair like he would after making a snarky joke to get Ian arguing.
He's jealous of the thought of someone else's lips tasting the birthday cake chapstick Ian wore religiously.
His feet keep moving with no real destination, he was doing what he's best at; running from his problems.
Except now he's too worn down to run and the thoughts plague him with every twist and turn.
No amount of whiskey and vodka could replace the warmth Ian used to give him, or erase the pain of missing him that spreads through his veins like a lifeline.
He reaches his tattered, glove covered hand into his back pocket and fumbles for his pack of menthols.
He flips the top and pulls out the slender stick before reaching for his lighter and cupping his hands to get a flame.
After a few times he finally achieved his mission and put the pack and lighter back in his pocket before walking towards the tall, dark fields.
The rain was still light, but Mickey kept walking, realizing where he had brought himself.
The dug outs.
He remembers shotgunning beers with Ian, kissing Ian, fucking ian, fighting ian,...
This place is covered in memories of Ian; both good and bad.
He smiles sadly as his resolve cracks and he's a sobbing heap of ian's sweatshirt on the grime covered dug out floor.
His knees braced against his chest as he silently cried at all the memories of Ian.
He truly hopes Ian is happy, no matter how soul crushing it is to bare.
He hopes Ian is happy, with or without a companionship.
With or without him.
The rain barrels down now and thunder roars across the sky as lightening splits the sky, but Mickey is falling apart.
His sobs grow louder with the reassurance of the rain drowning out his pitiful cries, and he fails to hear the footsteps approaching the dug out.
The feeling of a looming presence brings up Mickey's defensive state as he jerks his head up with a glare that would have most running into the stormy night.
But electric green glows brighter than the lightening outside, and his breath is knocked from his lungs.
His fingertips itch to reach forward but they're glued to the cold, damp concrete.
His eyes never fall from the eyes staring right back at him.
Fiery red hair damp and dripping water down a freckled covered nose and defined jaw line.
"Ian."
The word slips past his trembling lips in harsh contrast to the eerie silence besides the pouring rain.
Ian doesn't say anything, he simply strides towards Mickey's small figure and drops to his knees.
They stare at one another as the rain grows louder against the tin roof above their heads, but Mickey is focusing on Ian's heavy breathing as it shutters.
A warm, large palm rests against his tear stained cheek as Mickey leans into the touch on instinct.
His breath catches at the contact, it's been months since he last felt Ian touch him, back when they were inseparable and the sun was always shining.
They share a brief look before they both lean forward and connect their lips.
Spring rain, lavender, and vanilla is so heavy that it is all mickey can smell, and Mickey smiles.
Ian's lips taste of honey, whiskey, and that damn chapstick. It's intoxicating and Mickey is trying to get as much as Ian as he can, pushing against him with vigor and clinging to his shirt as their lips move lazily together.
The kiss is slow with no trace of lust, and hands cling to one another in desperation.
The words neither one can express are poured through every swipe of their tongue and fingers running through their hair.
Mickey was never a verbal lover, always more comfortable in proving it within the things he does.
He was a puzzle that you had to find the pieces to, you had to study every detail to find the next piece.
Sometimes you think you found a match, but it doesn't fit exactly and you're starting all over again.
Mickey was fucking broken, even though he acted all tough and mighty.
Ian pulled away first to breathe, and Mickey chased his lips even though he couldn't breathe himself, and decided to just breathe ian in as they rested their foreheads together.
The warmth was slowly spreading from Mickey's chest and through every single pore of his scarred skin until he felt the warmest he's ever been in the cold November rain.
His smile was small, but genuine, as he held onto Ian's neck, just letting his hand rest at the nape where the small curls began to curl.
His shoulder shook, but with laughter.
His eyes watered, but he was smiling.
Ian started laughing too, nudging the older boy with his shoulder.
"I've missed you."
Ian smiled even wider, eyes bright like when he was 16 in this very dugout when they met up for the first time.
In that moment he was still the curly haired, freckled faced, kid that Mickey fell in love with when he was caught up in Terry's shit and too scared to say it.
"Do you mean that?"
Mickey smiled back, "course I do, coppertop. I love your freckled, alien looking ass."
Ian's breath caught as he avoided the rest of Mickey's statement, " you love me?"
Mickey nodded slowly, "you're under my skin man, what the fuck can I do about it?"
Ian smiled before leaning over and turning Mickey's face towards him to give him another slow, sensual kiss.
"Can we try again?"
Mickey nodded, smiling genuinely.
"I'd like that."
Ian slung a long arm over Mickey's shoulders, "we're not scared, stubborn, confused kids anymore."
Mickey smiled, "your childish ass is still stubborn," Mickey quipped back with a snicker as Ian pinched his ribs.
"Ow, motherfucker," Mickey laughed as Ian kissed the side of his head.
"We're always going to be stubborn, but I love your hateful ass, and we can always make it work. We just have to communicate and work harder."
Mickey laughed as he slumped against Ian even more, "you've been watching dr.phil or some gay ass shit? You sound like a fuckin shrink man."
Ian shrugged, " I just want us back, Mick."
Mickey related, fuck he understood better than anyone, he craves ian at all times.
"You're my fucking endgame, man."
The rain slowed back down, and it was random splatters that fell softly against the Chicago streets.
Mickey slapped the side of Ian's face softly in an affectionate manner, " c'mon Gallagher."
Ian followed without hesitation, but spoke up as he walked next to Mickey, "where are we going?"
Mickey just laced his hand with Ian's bigger one and pulled them up to admire how Ian's freckled fingers separated his own tattooed ones.
His lips grazing the soft skin, before peering up at Ian.
"Home."