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It's 4:12am on a Tuesday when Ian is rudely dragged out of his slumber by the blaring generic ringtone of his cellphone. He groans loudly and rolls over, trying to store every detail of a heated dream involving Mickey, handcuffs, and whipped cream. But of course, like most dreams, it fades quickly in his wakening state.
"Fuck," Ian curses lowly while hearing Lip mumbling across the room about shoving the phone down his throat if he doesn't shut it up soon. Ian blinks open his eyes and rolls out of his bed, grabbing his phone and stepping into the hallway. He flips open the phone and rests it against his ear, running a hand over his face and yawning lowly.
"Yeah?" Manners are a thing for normal hours of the day, he decides.
"Uh, hey."
And suddenly Ian isn't tired, because that's Mickey's voice. He closes the door to his bedroom and runs down the stairs as quietly as possible, praying to whoever might be listening that he isn't just hearing something he wants to.
"Mickey?"
"You stupid Gallagher? Check your fuckin' caller ID." There's something tentative about Mickey's voice that makes Ian uneasy.
"Don't have it, costs too much to be worth it." Ian answers as he drops down onto the sofa, trying his best to conceal his concern. Mickey's never reacted well to Ian caring before, it's unlikely this phone call will be any different.
"It's like five bucks."
"Food's still more important, Mickey."
Mickey snorts loudly and Ian can hear him shuffling around, "yeah, alright, whatever."
It's quiet between them for a long moment; the only sound Ian can hear is Mickey's low breathing and the occasional movement of the older boy's cellphone. Ian's almost content to stay like that – its closer to relationship territory than Ian has ever been with Mickey, closer than he ever expected.
But something is wrong, and Ian can't help himself from being worried.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine, fuck off."
"It's a pretty early to be calling someone when you're fine." Ian's pushing his luck, he knows it.
"Just wanted to check if I was working tomorrow," Mickey grumbles the weak excuse. It sounds rehearsed, like Mickey tested it out at least ten times before calling. Ian figures Mickey probably knew he would press the issue. It's weird, but it kind of makes Ian happy to think that Mickey knows these kinds of things about him.
Ian does that sometimes, picks up on the little things Mickey shows, but doesn't say, and pretends they mean something.
"You know, you should probably be calling Linda about that." Ian teases with a small smile.
Mickey makes a disgruntled noise. "No way am I talking to that frigid bitch unless I need to."
"So you would rather talk me?"
"Called you didn't I?"
Ian grins into the darkness at his words.
"Stop fuckin' smiling Gallagher," Mickey scolds. Ian's sure he's trying to sound stern and angry, but it comes of more amused than anything else.
Maybe it's small, but to Ian it feels like Mickey just gave him the moon. No one knows their fuck buddies this well; Ian knows that, so this means something. Ian's grin grows wider and he hums happily, "you and me both work the morning shift."
"Alright," Mickey mutters and it's quiet again, except this time Mickey is the one to break the silence. "Why aren't you more fuckin' chatty? You're usually talking every goddamn second."
"It's early," Ian explains, punctuating it with a small laugh. He leans back, picking at his fingernails nervously, and breathes in, "did you want me to talk? I can, if you want."
"Fuck off," Mickey snaps. It's quiet again, Ian's smirks proudly, knowing it will only be a matter of time before Mickey starts calling him an asshole for being weird, or some other equally subtle method to get Ian to start talking. Mickey breathes in harshly, "yeah, just... I want you to fuckin' talk."
Ian's eyes widen, his heart is beating so loudly he's sure Mickey can hear it but he doesn't care, because for the first time Ian doesn't need to read between the lines. He isn't hunting for feelings that might not be there, instead without any type of veil, Mickey is telling him: I want you.
"Okay," Ian breathes out, trying to settle his sudden nerves. "Lip thinks he can get me an application to West Point, he doesn't seem too happy about the idea though."
Mickey snorts loudly, "Because it's fuckin' stupid."
Ian lets out a tired laugh and rolls his eyes, "yeah, yeah. Anyways, he's helping this professor out at the University..."
Ian spends the next twenty minutes telling Mickey all about Lip's promises to get him into West Point and the army hero that he might be able to get a recommendation from. He talks about his new training regime, and how he's put on another ten pounds of muscle. It's little mindless things that probably don't matter to Mickey, but the older boy doesn't stop him, just listens and comments sometimes - usually to call Ian an idiot, but once suggested that Ian should come lift weights with him and his brothers.
Mickey's breathing gets heavier as Ian speaks, his responses becoming less and less coherent. Ian finally allows himself to lie down on the couch, propping a pillow beneath his head and closing his eyes.
"Fuckin' tired," Mickey's words are slurring together, he's close to falling asleep.
Ian hums in agreement, but feels tightness in his chest. Mickey calling him, their conversation, and teasing, it all feels like something out of a dream. It's not ordinary, and Ian can't quell the twisting feeling in his stomach telling him that something is wrong. He thinks back to how tense Mickey sounded when he first picked up the phone and worries.
Ian slowly makes up his mind, hoping Mickey is lethargic enough that his words won't cause a bad reaction.
"Why'd you call me, Mick? Are you okay?"
More sleepy, mumbled words filter through the receiver. "M'fine, Gallagher, stop fuckin' stressing. Just a bad dream."
"What was it about?"
There's a pause, Ian thinks maybe he pushed too far or Mickey's woken up enough that he realizes these aren't things he wants to talk to Ian about.
"House of terrors," Mickey snorts and laughs, "You know."
Ian does. Not from Mickey, but from Mandy. He's heard about Terry's rampages, how since their mom passed away it's only being getting worse. Ian tries to think of something to say and comes up empty every time.
"Stop freaking out," Mickey yawns and moans softly. "You made it better."
Ian smiles, allows himself to revel in the phone call once again; enjoying all the small words and moments he knows he won't get from Mickey after this call ends. The thought is enough to make Ian never want to hang up.
So he doesn't.
He cradles the phone against his ear, and falls asleep listening as Mickey's breathing finally evens out.