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On his sixteenth birthday, Mickey wakes up to numbers clouding his vision. Mandy is somewhere above him, shaking his shoulders telling him to wake the fuck up, where’s the phone charger and happy birthday douchebag. There are numbers floating above her head. Coloured blue, 79 it says.
Mickey blinks, but the numbers don’t disappear like he expects them to. He thinks maybe he’s on some kind of extra belated acid trip or maybe he’s high – except that’s actually pretty fucking unlikely since they’ve been saving up the good shit for his birthday.
So what the fuck.
*
He thinks it’ll wear off, but it’s starting to scare the living shit out of him. He stumbles out into the sunlight and goes about his day. Every single person has a number floating above their heads. 17, 38, 24. Most are coloured blue, but he sees a few that are red too. 5, 3, 8.
He manages to ignore the numbers for most of the day and writes it down as delayed hallucinations or some shit. The party or whatever the fuck it is ends like any typical Milkovich get together – with most of his cousins passed out on the floor.
He goes to his room at around two am with a pounding headache and his eyes burning like he’d washed them in sulphuric acid.
He takes a laptop out from under his bed and waits for all the virus shit to stop popping up, before opening up a web browser and typing.
*
He’s 1 in 20 million, apparently. After googling for about five minutes, Mickey realises that he’s not going crazy and there are actually articles and books on this shit.
It’s rare, especially in the U.S, but sometimes a person can gain the ability to see the exact number of how compatible they are with someone else.
Blue means the possibility of friendship, family.
Red. Red means there’s a chance that you can fall in love with this person.
People advise that if the number is above 50, whether it's blue or red, you should give it a shot and talk to them.
1 in 20 million. Fucking typical that Mickey’s stuck with this shit.
*
Seven weeks into being sixteen, Mickey’s learned to ignore the numbers. He still jolts every time he sees someone with red but it’s always a number like 8 or 5 or 11. The highest he’s ever seen is a 29, and it was some blond guy at the gas station. Mickey looked the other way and never went to the same place ever again.
He starts fucking around a lot more than usual. He fucks girls because they’re never red, and he fucks boys whenever he’s given the opportunity.
Mickey doesn’t look at their numbers, but sometimes he seeks out the lowest possible number and goes for them. He gets a blue number 4 to blow him at some random alleyway. It feels like a fuck you to the universe.
Mickey’s a sarcastic, cynical piece of shit and he knows it. The last thing he wants to do is go out searching for his perfect match like so many with his little unique ability end up doing. Apparently, anything red and above 85 is considered soul mate material. Mickey had laughed out loud when he read that one.
Which is why he almost drops a can of baked beans when he glimpses a glowing red 100 on a Saturday afternoon.
*
Mickey gets the hell out of there. His heart is beating like it wants to jump out of his chest, he runs and runs until his legs ache and his lungs ache and his head is still fucking spinning.
Ian Gallagher.
Mickey knows him, or at least he knows of him. Everyone knows the Gallaghers and the fucked up shit they get themselves into. Mickey remembers Ian Gallagher from their little league team when they were kids. He knows him from neighbourhood barbeques and bonfires. He knows he has an older sister taking care of him because fucking Frank is always passed out near a gutter somewhere. Mickey knows that the older brother is some kind of genius and the youngest is somehow black. He knows that the Gallaghers throw most of their parties at the Alibi Room and that there’s an old baseball bat everyone apparently uses to beat the shit out of people. He knows that Ian Gallagher’s been working at the Kash and Grab for a few years now and that he used to wear a red apron but doesn’t anymore. Mickey just knows these things without meaning to learn them.
He thinks about the red 100 all day, it fucking eats up at him. He wonders if he’d even seen the numbers right; maybe it was 10 and he’d read it as 100. He lies in bed and decides to himself that he’ll check it again the next day.
He also decides to ignore the deep-seated feeling in his gut telling him that it’s definitely not a 10.
*
He pussies out and avoids the Kash and Grab for a few days. It’s fucking typical that when Mickey does finally show up, Gallagher has the day off. He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved so he settles for trying to push it out his mind as much as he can.
He just about succeeded in maybe probably sort-of forgetting about Ian Gallagher, when Mickey runs into him in the high school hallway.
Or more accurately, Ian runs into Mickey.
“Ay, watch where you’re fucking going dickwad.” The words come out of Mickey’s mouth before he can catch a glance at the guy.
“Oh shit, sorry.”
Mickey jolts when he recognises Ian’s voice. It’s somehow familiar to Mickey, even though he’s hardly ever heard it.
Gallagher’d been carrying a bunch of books and he apparently dropped them when he bumped into Mickey. He struggles to hold them all at the same time and Mickey feels like he’s in some rom-com, because fuck no, this shit ain’t happening.
Except Ian looks pathetic and that fucking 100 is hovering above his head all up in Mickey’s face.
Before Mickey knows it, he picks up the one book that had managed to slide near his feet and he practically shoves it towards Ian. “Here,” he grunts out.
Ian looks up, obviously surprised. But he shrugs and takes the book, “Hey, thanks.”
Mickey doesn’t want to say anything else. He doesn’t want to like a guy, especially in this fucking neighbourhood. He doesn’t want to fall in love with Ian Gallagher, even though they’re 100% compatible. Technically speaking, that makes Ian his soul mate and in all of Mickey’s research, he doesn’t remember anyone even getting a 100.
So yeah, with Ian Gallagher standing in front of him in the flesh, with his pretty face, broad chest and red hair, Mickey’s fucking curious. Sue him.
“You really reading all this shit?” he hears himself saying.
Ian laughs, and Mickey gets a little caught up on how nice it sounds.
“Fuck, no. Most of them are my brother’s but I owe him, apparently.”
Mickey snorts in response because that sounds typical for the southside prodigy. Making your little brother carry a billion nerd books.
“So you coming back to school or…?” Ian says, but then shut ups real quick, probably realising that it’s none of his business.
And it’s true; it really is none of Ian’s business.
Mickey could tell Ian to fuck off, but he doesn’t want to do that just yet. “Came to see Mandy,” he lies.
The truth is that he did want to see if he can come back to school. He has time now that his dad fucked off to the metal motel yet again.
But in the end, Mickey never stepped foot in the head office because he doesn’t enjoy being sneered and laughed at. It’s pretty much guaranteed that he’s fucked for life and he doesn’t need some balding egotistical teacher to confirm that.
If he so much as mentions wanting to start school again to anyone, they’ll probably think it’s a fucking joke. Except Ian Gallagher apparently, who’d asked the question with all the ease in the world.
*
Somehow, they become friends. Mickey likes to blame the inevitable cosmic happenings of the universe for this, but if he’s being honest Mickey knows that he’s the only one to blame. He’d wanted to know everything there is about Ian Gallagher. It’d begun when Mickey ‘accidently’ started bumping into him everywhere and he’d kept at it until one day they were just hanging out.
Mickey even ended up in a few of Ian’s classes, so they’d fucking do homework together. It worked out pretty well since English is Ian’s strongest skill and for Mickey it’s Math. They’d spent a lot of time together and Mickey never felt like he was being judged or laughed at for trying, which says something.
Sometimes, Ian would go into rambly moods and talk for a while. Mickey would subtly catch onto certain words, collecting new pieces of information and treating them like fucking gems. They were simple things like Ian’s favourite food and whether he’s a cat or dog person or his favourite time of year. Things like stories about his little brother or his fucked up mom or the time they once got a turtle.
And the whole time, Mickey would promise himself that he’s only doing this to learn out of curiosity. Like, okay fuckhead this is the person you’re 100% compatible with and even though he’s never gonna kiss you or fuck you or love you, it’s worth knowing what he’s like.
The problem is though, that the more Mickey learns about Ian, the less he believes that this guy is his soul mate. Because Ian Gallagher is too good for him, his smile is too soft and his heart is too big.
It’s on a Thursday afternoon, while they’re getting high together at some abandoned building, when Mickey decides he’ll never tell Ian that they’re apparently soul mates.
And it’s simple enough really: he wants Ian to find someone else, someone better. Someone who isn’t Mickey Milkovich, the guy with too much dirt under his fingernails and baggage up to his neck.
Ian laughs at his own lame jokes, the sun filters through the boards and onto his face like a fucking halo. Mickey smirks down at him, his head is lying close to Mickey’s knee, almost grazing it. Ian’s a disgrace to his Irish roots, he’s a fucking lightweight is what he is. Mickey realises that he wants to kiss him, really really wants to kiss him, right there and then. He also realises at the exact same time that they need to stop this fucking friendship. Because it sucks Mickey dry and pumps him with life, and it’s exhausting wondering whether it’s all worth it for either of them.
So Mickey shuts him out. Stops answering his calls, stops glancing at his text messages and closes the door in his face the one time Mickey’d accidently answered it.
Ian gets his letter from West Point a few weeks later. Mickey knows this because Ian sends him a letter too (or more like he shoves it under Mickey’s door while he’d come over to say goodbye to Mandy).
Mickey doesn’t read it until the house is entirely quiet and it’s well past midnight. After he finishes it, there’s a lump in his throat and his eyes scan over Ian’s scrawny handwriting again and again, until he knows it’s real. He reads it in Ian’s voice, like he’s sitting there right beside Mickey, all freckles and green eyes.
Dear Mickey
I know you’re angry with me and you probably won’t read this, which means I’m just writing this to myself and I sound like an idiot. But I’m going to write this anyway, so here it goes.
For the last few weeks I’ve been going over everything I’ve ever done so I can work out why you hate me all of a sudden and I can’t think of anything specific so I guess you probably figured it all out.
You figured out that I’m gay. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier but I was scared that we’d stop being friends (I guess I was right…).
I’m writing this because I feel like I have nothing more to lose since I probably won’t see you for a long time now.
I like you a lot. I’ve always felt like we had some kind of connection and I guess I thought you felt it too, until a few weeks ago. Maybe I even loved you, I’m not sure.
Anyway, take care
Ian
*
Mickey doesn’t hear from Ian for a few months after that. He’s found himself hovering over Ian’s number over and over again, but he never touches it.
Mickey and Mandy get shit-faced one night, which is fun until Mandy starts going on and on about how much she misses the goddamn red head.
Mickey’s heart feels like stone and his fingers are numb, but somehow he presses call without thinking too hard on it.
It goes to voicemail. No fucking wonder, it’s 3 am.
Ian’s voice was nice though, nice like the first time. “You’ve reached Ian Gallagher,” he’d said. “I can’t come to the phone right now so leave a message.” Mickey doesn’t leave a message.
*
Mandy knows that something serious went down between them, and she assumes (correctly) that it’s all Mickey’s fault. She’d since given up on trying to get Mickey to talk to Ian. Or vice versa, apparently.
On account of Lip fucking his sister, Mandy’s invited over to the Gallaghers’ for Thanksgiving dinner. She drags Mickey along, assuring him that Ian’s not gonna be there anyway and tells him to stop being pathetic. Mickey rolls his eyes, but there’s a reason Mandy’s a blue 79, as opposed to his brothers (44, 68, 55). He’d rather spend Thanksgiving with Mandy than the rest of his family, and the Gallaghers’ most likely have better food.
Ian shows up right before dinner. He yells out “Surprise!” and his smile is fucking huge, until he spots Mickey. For a moment, Mickey thinks that Ian will demand to know why Mickey’s even there.
But nothing happens. Ian goes about hugging all his siblings and sits far away from him.
The entire night, Mickey is caught between avoiding Ian’s eyes and staring at him when he’s looking away. It’s a fucking vicious cycle that would’ve been hilarious under other circumstances.
Mickey gets up to go to the bathroom right before dessert and is only slightly surprised when he hears Ian’s chair scrape the tile right afterwards.
He takes a piss and wonders whether Ian’s waiting at the door. Before, Ian probably would’ve barged in without even knocking, hell; Mickey probably wouldn’t have closed the door in the first place.
But things are different now, that much is obvious.
Mickey opens the door and Ian’s standing there with his arms crossed. For a moment, the 100 floating above his head completely overwhelms Mickey. He feels something boiling up inside of him ready to overflow. Maybe he’ll lose all self-control, cross the threshold and just kiss him.
“So,” Ian says. His voice is loud and clear, probably louder than intended since they’re the only people upstairs and it’s quiet otherwise. Ian looks down for a moment, before raising his eyes again. “Did you read my letter?”
“Yeah, man,” he hears himself saying. “You need to work on your writing skills – too many run-on sentences.”
Ian lets out a startled laugh. “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“No. I have more.”
Ian nods and holds himself tighter like he’s bracing himself. “Okay.”
Mickey takes a breath. He looks at the glowing red above Ian’s head, floating around and as bright as ever.
“You’re my 100.”
Ian’s arms go loose and his eyebrows come together in a confused frown. Mickey doesn’t laugh out loud but he can’t help a small grin at Ian’s expression.
“Wait, what? I, um,” Ian stumbles for words and Mickey grins some more. “Okay maybe I wasn’t expecting that. What does that mean, 100?”
Mickey scratches his nose and looks down. He’d been hoping that Ian would just get it, but of course he’ll have to explain this shit.
“You ever heard of those people, they’re about 1 in 20 million. They can see how compatible they are with other people with like, numbers and colours and shit above people’s heads.”
“You mean Seers?”
“Shit, don’t call it that,” Mickey rolls his eyes. “But, yeah.”
“Yeah…” Ian says. God, sometimes he was slow.
“Well guess what shithead, I’m a fucking Seer. And you’re my 100.”
Ian’s silent for a moment, Mickey feels like his heart might just jump out of his chest this time.
“Wait,” Ian steps closers, completely losing his stance from earlier. “You mean, 100 as is in 100% compatible?”
“Yeah,” Mickey confirms.
Ian stares at him for a moment. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, until. “What colour?”
Mickey doesn’t reply right away. Instead he takes a step forward and closes the gap between them. He presses his lips to Ian’s and kisses him long and hard. When he pulls back, Mickey smiles.
“Red,” he says.