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Mickey had made a lot of hard decisions in his life. He’d made decisions to protect himself, to protect his sister, to protect the small circle of people he actually cared about. He’d never really had to make a decision to protect his heart before, though.
Breaking it off with Ian Gallagher was the hardest decision he’d ever made.
He knew it wasn’t going to last, there was no fucking way, so he decided to end it before he got any closer to Ian, before the only fucking thing he could focus on were shy smiles and bright red hair and the way he always tasted like fucking peanut butter and nutella.
(It was kinda already too late.)
Mickey avoided him for weeks. After the confrontation in the hallway, Mickey stayed away from there, and he stayed away from the cafeteria, and he stayed away from the law firm Ian worked at. He didn’t walk anywhere near the Gallagher house and he tried to ignore the crushing weight on his chest and the bitter taste in his mouth.
It worked pretty well, for a while. Mickey was good at denial, he was good at stuffing his feelings into a little locked box and burying it deep under the ground. Hell, he’d been practicing for this his entire life. As long as he didn’t have to see Ian, he could pretend that everything was alright, and his mind wouldn’t play Ian’s face on repeat, the way he smiled, the way he’d looked absolutely crushed the last time they spoke, reminding Mickey of everything he’d stupidly thrown away.
Unfortunately, avoiding Ian Gallagher wasn’t as easy at it looked. Because he and Mandy were friends from school, or something, and Mickey came home one day after work to find the two of them sprawled out on the Milkovich’s ratty old couch, talking loudly about some history test they had to study for.
Mickey froze in the doorway.
He watched Ian grin at his sister and he watched Ian’s hands fiddle nervously with the edge of his notebook, one of his endearing nervous tics that Mickey had picked up on, and he watched Ian’s eyelashes flutter and he was such a fucking idiot, because that little locked box wasn’t buried as deep as it should have been.
Mickey wanted to say something, he wanted Ian to look up and see him, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk seeing that heartbroken look on Ian’s face again, couldn’t risk knowing that he’d put it there, and worst of all, he couldn’t risk Ian looking at him like everything was okay, like everything was fine, like he’d gotten over Mickey, just like that, while Mickey still felt like someone was hammering inside his chest. It was selfish, but he just couldn’t risk knowing that Ian didn’t care anymore, and Mickey was still a stupid fucking idiot that had only done this to himself.
(It’s too late for me, Ian had said, and Mickey had wanted to punch something, because Ian was transparent and he wasn’t afraid to show weakness and he had just stood there and told Mickey the goddamn truth, and Mickey had crushed him. Mickey had wanted to punch something, because Ian had said the one thing Mickey was afraid to hear, the one thing he was afraid to say back. It was true, really, Mickey was just as far gone, and he resented Ian for telling the truth. It made everything so fucking more complicated.)
(I lied, Mickey wanted to say, It’s too late for me too, but he was a coward in all the ways Ian was not.)
So, Mickey turned on his heel and slipped away to his bedroom, slamming his face down into his pillow so he didn’t have to feel himself cry. That would make this whole thing too fucking real. Mickey wasn’t built to cry, but Ian Gallagher must have screwed something loose inside him, must have set something off that made him freer, made him forget that he wasn’t supposed to have a weakness, wasn’t supposed to care about anyone other than himself. Especially not a boy.
The whole thing was ridiculous and Mickey never should have let it happen, but he did. He heard Ian laugh through the thin walls of his bedroom, and it felt like a knife to his chest.
---
And because Mickey’s life was some sort of fucking cosmic joke, Ian and Mandy were on the couch the following week when Mickey came home, and this time, Mandy was kicking Ian’s ass at Super Smash Bros.
He stayed in the doorway for a second too long, because their game ended and Ian groaned because Mandy had beat him pretty soundly and then he looked up at Mickey, a startled look spreading across his face. Their eyes met, and Mickey decided not to be afraid anymore. His father wasn’t home, and his sister was safe, and Ian was in his fucking living room.
“Hey,” he said softly.
The corners of Ian’s mouth twitched. “Mickey.”
“Mind if I join, fuckheads?” Mickey asked, searching Ian’s face carefully. He didn’t look like he wanted to murder Mickey, so that was good, and his eyes were a little sad, not as bright as Mickey remembered, and he was kinda smiling up at Mickey. Mandy gave them both a weird look, but he ignored it.
Ian shrugged his shoulders, so Mickey took a seat on the couch. Their thighs pressed together, and Mickey pretended not to feel the rush of nerves it sent down his spine, the way his leg was warm and tingly where they met, because he wasn’t a fucking teenager (Well, he was, but he wasn’t supposed to act like one, but Ian seemed to make Mickey throw everything he was supposed to be out the window).
He grabbed the third controller from the table and joined the next game, letting his body relax into the couch after a hard day of work, and Ian seemed to relax too. He pressed their shoulders together, and fucking hell, Mickey missed him so much. He missed their casual touches, like this, and he missed their deliberate touches, like the way their mouths fit together and Ian’s hands on his face.
They didn’t say much, just a few passing comments about the game, but Mickey watched Ian out of the corner of his eye, watched the way Ian’s own eyes slid over to Mickey every once in a while, and their eyes caught, and they both kinda smiled at each other, and Mickey felt warm all over. It gave him the smallest bit of hope.
It was like that for an hour, Ian and Mickey trading small glances, and both of them losing horribly to Mandy. She made sure to rub that fact in their faces.
Mandy had to leave for a date, so they wished her luck and said their goodbyes, and then it was just Ian and Mickey, pressed up against each other on the couch in Mickey’s living room, their hearts heavy and a little bruised, but it was so much fucking better than the past couple of weeks had been.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Mickey said, as soon as Mandy slammed the front door.
Ian took a deep breath. He turned his whole body to face Mickey, finally, and their chests brushed against each other gently. “Mickey,” he said, and Mickey didn’t know how he managed to pour so much into just the way he said Mickey’s fucking name, but he did. Ian put it all out onto the table, and Mickey wasn’t going to run away this time.
“I mean it,” Mickey continued. “Jesus, Ian, I -”
Ian cut him off. “It’s okay, Mickey. It’s okay.” He put his hand on Mickey’s knee. “I get it,” and he looked up at Mickey with so much fucking understanding in his eyes, so much goddamn adoration, and Mickey didn’t deserve this, not when he had screwed things up so badly.
Mickey wanted to cry, but he just couldn’t, not when Ian was smiling at him like that.
“Hey,” Ian said, drumming his fingers against Mickey’s leg. “Wanna walk me home? I think we’ve got peanut butter and nutella and bread.”
Mickey felt his heart speed up, and he smiled back at Ian, and he nodded. And so, Mickey followed Ian home for sandwiches for the second time in his life. He promised himself this time would be different.