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Contrary to popular belief, Mickey had never actually killed anyone. However, that didn't mean he was actually morally opposed to murder, and he was pretty close to offing this fucking asshole that always took the last peanut butter and nutella sandwich thirty fuckin' seconds before Mickey could get to the cafeteria.
Mickey was a simple guy. He went to work in the morning, at some big fancy office building on the Northside, cleaning floors and shit, because he had needed a job and no one on the Southside would hire Mickey Milkovich, teenage thug extraordinaire. He kept his head down, didn't really talk to anyone, and did his fucking job. He also ate peanut butter and nutella sandwiches from the fancy cafeteria everyday, savoring the taste of peanuts and chocolate and hazelnuts in his mouth, because they were fucking incredible together.
That was until Ian Gallagher showed up.
He knew Ian vaguely, the same way he knew every other Southside kid around his age. The Gallaghers were pretty infamous around their neighborhood, their dad was a drunk and you didn't mess with their oldest sister (Mickey was pretty sure her name was Phoebe or Fiona or something), and you don't talk about their mom. He wasn't sure how the hell Ian had a job over here, because he sure wasn't cleaning floors with Mickey, but he figured Ian probably had an internship with one of the companies. Their high school wasn't good for much, but it did have a program that helped underprivileged kids apply for internships on the other side of the city.
Mickey thought about talking to him, once, because Ian had grinned at him from across the cafeteria and Mickey's stomach had twisted, because he was a total sucker for freckles and wide smiles, but then Ian had grabbed the last sandwich and Mickey changed his mind, because that was his fucking sandwich. It became a pattern - Ian always got out of whatever the fuck he did just before Mickey finished his morning work - and there was usually only a couple of peanut butter and nutella sandwiches anyways, so Ian would always take the last one and Mickey would be stuck with something fuckin' disgusting and he would glare at the back of Ian's head for the rest of lunch.
Ian knew exactly what he was doing, too, because he would shoot these little smirks in Mickey's direction while he was eating, and Mickey wasn't quite sure if the urge to punch him or kiss him was stronger. Probably punch him, because as a general rule, Mickey did not kiss people who crossed him. Even Ian Gallagher.
(Ian would try to sit and talk with him, sometimes, and Mickey would have none of it.
"How's your salad?" he would ask Mickey, through a mouthful of chocolate, as Mickey picked through some pale tomatoes and limp green lettuce and hated everything.
"Fuck off," Mickey would say, and sometimes he would throw in his middle finger too, for good measure. Ian was stubborn, though, and he would just sit there, smiling to himself, because he was a fucking idiot.
"Where do you work?" Ian asked, one time, and Mickey had grunted at him noncommittally, because he was not gonna make fucking conversation. Ian had other ideas, though, and because he was a fucking weirdo, he apparently didn't need the other person to actually respond in order for him to continue talking.
"I have an internship at the law firm downstairs. Not really interested in legal stuff, or anything, but I applied through school and got the job. So, here I am. I don't get paid much, but I pretty much just make copies and take phone calls and it's pretty chill." He smiled at Mickey's death glare, and Mickey wanted to tell him to be afraid, because no one got anywhere by treating a Milkovich nicely, wanted to tell him to be afraid because he was getting under Mickey's skin, and none of Mickey's stupid little attachments ended well. Mickey didn't know how not to break people, and he didn't want to see Ian Gallagher broken.)
Mickey didn't know why he let Ian get away with it for so long. Anyone else would have received a good beating after the second or third time they stole his sandwich, especially since Ian was Southside and knew exactly who he was messing with. If he wasn't too busy being angry, Mickey might have admired his nerve. People that stood up to Mickey usually didn't last long, and Mickey didn't know why Ian Gallagher was any different. He told himself it was because he wanted to keep his job, because bashing someone's head in at work probably wouldn't do himself any favors, but Mickey was also the king of denial. He let Ian get away with it and he was too scared to think about why.
---
Mickey was having a bad day. His father was back from jail, early, and Mickey had already heard one screaming match between him and Mandy, received three different half-serious death threats from Terry, and listened to a shit-ton of slurs that cut right through Mickey like a knife. He'd dealt with this his whole life, sure, he'd learned how to turn himself into a hard shell of a person, covering up his own weaknesses and insecurities with violence and blood and pain, but it still got harder every time his father came back from being locked up. For a short period of time, Mickey forgot how to be afraid, forgot that he couldn't have things like happiness and freedom, forgot that he couldn't associate with people like Ian Gallagher, people that were full of sunshine and snark and made Mickey want to do fucking stupid things.
Ian took the last sandwich today, of fucking course he did, and that was it, Mickey just snapped. Ian was a dead man. He chewed his salad angrily, watching the back of Ian's stupid red hair, and plotted multiple gruesome murder scenarios.
He finished his salad and watched Ian leave the cafeteria. Mickey slipped out after him, following him down the dimly-lit corridor. He wasn't quite sure what his plan was, actually, since he lacked any sort of weapon, but he needed to get it through Ian's skull that he had messed with Mickey for the last time. No more of this you're-pretty-cute-so-I'll-let-you-get-away-with-it bullshit. Ian was going down.
"Gallagher," Mickey called. Ian turned around, his eyes wide, and Mickey charged forward, pushing at Ian's shoulders, turning him down one of the small side hallways before the elevators. He cornered Ian, ignoring how the warmth of Ian's skin seeped through his t-shirt and crashed against Mickey's palms.
"What do you want, Mickey?" Ian asked, grinning, despite the fact that his back was against the wall and Mickey looked fuckin' murderous. "Finally gonna talk to me after all these months?"
"That's the last time you take my damn sandwich, asshole," Mickey said, angrily. Ian's eyes were sparkling, were fucking laughing at Mickey, like he wasn't even a little bit afraid.
"Oh my god," Ian said, and he kissed Mickey. Mickey forgot what they were arguing about, forgot what they were talking about, his whole world was quickly narrowed down to Ian's mouth and his tongue and Mickey moved his hands up from Ian's shoulders to tangle in his hair.
"You drive me crazy," Mickey panted, when they broke apart, the angry heat pulsing through his body turning into something more desperate, something he had tried to ignore but just fucking couldn't anymore.
"I know," Ian smirked, because he was a little shit, and he got under Mickey's skin, and Mickey didn't care about that anymore, because he knew what Ian's mouth tasted like, knew what his fingers felt like dragging across Mickey's skin, and fuck, Mickey really had to get back upstairs because his lunch break was almost over, but it was hard to tear himself away. "Wanna come back to my house after work? I'll make you a sandwich."
Mickey said yes.