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“If you give half a shit about me, Mickey. Half.”
Ian shakes his head, desperation burning in his eyes, and Mickey aches. There’s a pain searing through him that he’s only felt a few times before, but he recognizes it as the kind of agony that only Ian Gallagher can put him through.
“Don’t do this,” he pleads.
God, doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he already know that he couldn’t possibly want any of this?
Mickey decides to convince him the only way he knows how, the only way he’s ever been able to communicate with Ian. Because even between going to juvie and Ian fucking other guys, they always had this, their bodies coming together, deep passion stinging just under their skin.
He lunges for him then, pressing their lips together in a novel way that he still hasn’t really gotten used to, but God, it’s good. The fire in his chest burns brighter, and he can feel Ian get hotter beneath his fingertips. Kissing isn’t something they do, especially like this, and if there’s anything that can tell Ian everything he needs to know, it’s lips and tongues and teeth.
They’re taking their clothes off and diving into each other again, scratching and scraping and biting. It’s rough in a way that it hasn’t been in a long time, and if he’s honest, he’ll say it’s almost like their first time. He’s coming alive with Ian under his skin, a warmth spreading through him that hasn’t been there for years, lighting him up and tingling down his spine and curling through his toes.
He knows. He has to know.
Ian smiles at him as he puffs on his cigarette. Message received.
“Hot damn, Gallagher. I oughta piss you off more often.”
The smile is still there, but it’s cockier now. He hands Mickey the cigarette. “So what are we gonna do? Are you gonna tell everyone to leave?” he asks.
Mickey tries not to let it mean so much to him that Ian said we. “Nah,” he says, taking a drag. “I’ll go get this shit over with. You can wait for me here. Shouldn’t take more than an hour, right? You better be ready for round two.”
Ian furrows his brows. “You’re not seriously going through with this, are you?”
“Why you actin’ like I got a choice in this?” Because he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Ian’s supposed to know that. Didn’t Ian hear him? Didn’t he feel it?
“Bullshit. Listen to me, Mickey: your dad is an evil, psychotic prick, and you’re just gonna let him ruin your life?”
“Oh, grow the fuck up.” Sometimes Mickey forgets how idealistic Ian is, how he dreams of a successful future for himself, how he hopes and aspires to be great. And Mickey envies him for it--his dreams were beaten out of him so long ago that he almost forgets having them. “Don’t act like you know a thing about my dad--”
“Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“Not everybody gets to just--” He cuts himself off. Looking at Ian is more difficult than it used to be, so he ducks his head and clenches his jaw, turning the words over in his head. “Not everybody just gets to blurt out how they fuckin’ feel every minute.”
Ian’s eyes are stormy and conflicted. Please, he thinks. I need you to understand me, please.
Just as he opens his mouth to respond, the door squeaks open and Mandy stumbles in. They jolt away from each other instinctually, and Mickey wipes his eyes.
His sister seems surprised to find Ian with him, but quickly recovers. “Everyone’s looking for you,” she snaps.
“I’m having a fuckin’ smoke, is that alright?” he retorts. Goddammit, she couldn’t have waited two minutes?
She keeps her eyes on him, but he doesn’t bristle under her stare. She turns to Ian. “You just get here?”
Mickey forces his eyes away from where Ian stands, hunched in on himself and defeated. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
She sounds happy to see him, and he doesn’t know why that bothers him.
“Last minute decision,” Ian says vaguely.
Mickey swallows the lump in his throat. Ian wasn’t going to come, probably still didn’t want to be there, but he came anyway, barging in full of hurt and righteous indignation. He came for Mickey.
Mandy gestures for Ian to follow her out, and panic flutters in his chest. He speaks before he can think. “No.”
They turn to him. Ian looks puzzled, but Mandy seems upset. “No?” she echoes.
“He’s staying down here.” He keeps his eyes on Ian. “We...have business.”
Mandy scoffs. “What business? Can’t it wait?”
“We’ll handle it when I’m done with this,” he says shortly.
“He can still--”
“No.” He cuts her off harshly and looks Ian in the eye. “Wait for me here.” Please, just listen to me. Just this once.
Mandy expects Ian to protest, but he only nods, taking out another cigarette and leaning against one of the tables. Mickey turns on his heel and walks out, knowing his sister is following him.
The gaudy decorations and tacky banner floating above his head as he exchanges vows with her--he can’t say her name, can’t even think it, can’t think anything beyond get away from me, don’t touch me whenever he sees her face--make him nauseous. He chances a glance at the people there to witness his humiliation and catches his father smiling.
His mouth goes dry as he croaks out a quiet “I do” and reminds himself of Ian waiting for him as he leans in to peck her on the corner of her mouth. It barely passes for a kiss, but he’ll vomit if he has to do anything more.
His lawfully wedded wife smiles as they face their audience after being declared, grabbing his hand, and he barely resists the urge to yank it away from her.
When he finds a spare moment in between congratulations from family and friends, he makes his way back to the room he left Ian in. His skin is crawling and his stomach is churning, and he just needs to see Ian, needs Ian’s hands on him, needs Ian to make him forget about this awful day, needs Ian to let him break down, because he can feel it coming, can feel himself unravelling--
Ian isn’t there when he opens the door.
He waits until his house is still and silent before grabbing a jacket and walking out. His feet take him to the dugouts without him actively deciding to go there, and he’s glad his body seems to know Ian so well.
Ian is sitting on a bench, staring blankly through the fence separating him from the rest of the field. There are cigarette butts and empty beer bottles scattered around him, and the cigarette still hanging between his fingers has burned dangerously close to his skin, but he doesn’t notice the heat.
“What the fuck, Gallagher?”
Ian's eyes flicker up to his face and then down to his left hand hanging limply at his side; his face closes off and he turns away.
“No, come on,” Mickey implores. “Don’t do that.”
Ian doesn’t respond, shoulders stiff.
Mickey shuffles closer to him. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
Ian’s fingers twitch.
Mickey can feel himself crumbling. “Ian,” he says, and maybe it’s the fact that he used his name, maybe it’s the fact that his voice broke, but Ian turns to face him this time. “Why didn’t you wait?” he asks quietly.
Ian glances down at his hand again. “I don’t have any interest in being your mistress, Mickey.”
“You wouldn’t be a mistress, man. You know it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” He gets unsteadily to his feet. “You didn’t even want me there, just wanted me to sit and wait so we could fuck after your wedding. You’re only here because you want to keep your side piece.”
There’s anger in his eyes and hurt in his voice. Mickey swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “No--Ian, that’s not--”
“Then what?” he challenges. “What was it?”
Mickey closes his eyes and tries to control his trembling hands, clenching them into fists and digging his nails into his palms. “It was--I just...”
Ian laughs humourlessly and takes a step back, swaying a bit. “I knew it.” He shakes his head, and Mickey doesn’t know if he wants to clear it or he’s disappointed.
Probably both. Mostly the second one.
He starts to walk away, and the panic Mickey felt earlier returns. “No, Ian--Ian, please.”
The words feels foreign on Mickey’s tongue, and he can tell by the way Ian freezes that they sound foreign in his ears. Mickey scrambles forward, but checks himself before he covers half the small distance Ian put between them. “Please,” he whispers again.
Ian turns to face him, eyes guarded. “Mickey,” he sighs, but he doesn’t continue.
“I just needed you to wait, okay?” Mickey says. He hates that there’s a hitch in his voice as he tries to explain, hates that he’s drowning in whatever’s welling up inside him. “I didn’t want it, you know that, right? It was--I--all of it, any of it, it was all...” He doesn’t know what he wants to say, and he can feel himself fraying at the edges. Ian watches him with an unreadable expression, or maybe it’s concern in his eyes. Or pity. Mickey can’t tell. “I needed you to understand, man. I just fuckin’ needed you to--”
I just fucking needed you.
He swallows those words down, but Ian hears them. There’s new knowledge in his eyes as he walks forward, and finally there are hands cupping his cheeks and there’s a gentle touch of their foreheads; there’s warm breath against his neck and arms wrapped around him and even though they’re holding him together, he takes it as his cue to fall apart.
So he does. The sobs are painful and powerful, making him claw at Ian’s back to bring him closer and then roughly shove him away in the same movement. Ian always comes back, though, always wraps him up tightly and runs his hands through his hair, always whispers apologies in his ear. He doesn’t reassure him, doesn’t tell him to calm down, and Mickey’s grateful.
When he finishes, throat raw and cheeks flushed red, they’re sitting on the ground. He can see stars twinkling through the openings in the chain link fence, and for some reason it puts one of the broken pieces inside him back together.
Ian’s looking up at them too, and Mickey can see that he’d cried with him. “Sometimes,” Ian starts, voice raspy. “There are times when I just want to claw my eyes out, you know?”
Mickey nods. “Yeah. Me too.”
Ian drags a hand over his face and puts his head between his knees, boxing his ears in. “I want--” He cuts himself off, and Mickey can see his shoulders shake with more tears.
Mickey watches for a moment before tentatively placing a hand down between Ian’s shoulder blades, rubbing in small circles. He keeps the hand there until Ian decides he wants more, throwing his arms around Mickey and burying his face in his chest. This embrace isn’t the one he gave Mickey, strong and sure; this is desperate, clinging to him and bawling into the brown hoodie that Mickey’s not even sure is his.
When he finishes, his arms remain clutched around Mickey’s middle and his head is resting in Mickey’s lap. Mickey watches him, running his fingers absentmindedly through his hair. Which is really just rubbing his head, but Ian still seems to like it.
“I want to tear my skin off,” he whispers hoarsely.
Mickey’s hand freezes at the admission. “I don’t want to see me anymore when I look in the mirror.”
Mickey gulps, trying to find something to say that will make it better, but he’s at a loss. “Who do you want to see?” he asks quietly.
“Someone else. Anyone else.” His voice is dead.
Mickey’s mouth is dry. The hand on Ian’s head moves down to squeeze his hip. “Don’t,” he rasps.
Ian blinks up at him. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t be anyone else.” He leans down so that his head is resting on Ian’s shoulder. “I need you to be you.”
Stray tears leak out of Ian’s eyes. “Why?” he whispers. He looks like a scared little boy, and Mickey doesn’t know why that surprises him. That’s what he is, what they both are. Scared little boys. “I wasn’t--”
“Wasn’t what?”
Ian gulps and closes his eyes, like it’ll be easier to admit if he’s alone in the dark. “I wasn’t strong enough.” His voice is barely more than a wisp. “You keep getting hurt because of me.”
Mickey brings his arms around Ian, squeezing himself closer. “Shut up,” he says softly. “This wasn’t your fault. None of it was.”
His breath hitches. He looks up at Mickey with something like hope bubbling up in his eyes. “It wasn’t,” Mickey repeats in his ear. “Nothing’s your fault, Ian. You gotta know that.”
Ian holds him tighter, and Mickey maneuvers himself so that they’re laying side by side. The ground is hard and uncomfortable, but they keep their arms locked around each other and tangle their legs together.
Mickey can see stars shining behind Ian’s head, and he lets something like contentment flow through him. Ian smiles, and Mickey wants happiness to seep into his every pore, wants to soak up all of his light so that they’re both warm.
He closes his eyes to fall asleep, and just as he starts to drift off, he feels Ian’s lips brush against his hairline. “I love you so much, Mick,” he breathes.
Mickey opens his eyes and finds Ian looking at him uncertainly, something like fear flashing across his face. He brings a hand up to rest against Ian’s cheek, brushing his thumb back and forth slightly. “You shouldn’t,” he says quietly.
Ian smiles. “I know. Can’t help it.”
He wants to say something, but the words are tied up in the back of his throat. Ian seems to sense his dilemma and kisses him softly.
They smile at each other as they pull away, and Mickey decides that it’s enough.
There’s someone standing over him. He feigns sleep for a moment longer to see if he can sense who it is. If it were someone in his house, he would’ve been kicked awake. The hand curled around Ian’s bicep squeezes him reflexively.
The eyes are still on him, so he opens his and sits up, angling himself so that his body blocks Ian’s face.
Lip Gallagher is staring at him.
“He didn’t come home last night,” he says, gesturing to his brother. “Thought something happened.”
Mickey doesn’t understand his nonchalance at finding the two of them curled up together, but then remembers that Ian is the kind of person who needs a confidant, someone to unload all the shit he carries in his head on every once in a while. He swallows thickly and tries not to be upset that Ian told his brother about them. Maybe that means he can tell Mandy.
He twists around to look at Ian’s still-sleeping form and then back to Lip. “He’s fine,” he says.
Lip nods. “Make sure it stays that way.”
They share a long look before Lip stalks away.
Mickey watches Ian for a few moments before gently shaking him awake. Ian swats at him and grumbles something before turning over. “Come on, Mumbles, time to get up,” he says, smiling. “Gotta get back. Your family’s looking for you.”
Ian moans and sits up, stretching. “Let’s never sleep on concrete again,” he strains, rubbing his shoulder.
Mickey shakes his head at him. “Didn’t realize you were so spoiled. Don’t you have to sleep on the ground during those ROTC retreats?”
“Yeah, but I had a sleeping bag. And a tent.”
“Oh, excuse me.”
Teasing is familiar, and they're treading water around each other, trying to feel out where they stand after last night. Ian stretches until something pops in his back, standing up and dropping a kiss to the top of Mickey’s head. “I’ll see you later?” he asks.
Mickey thinks about his father, the sleeping dragon perched atop a mound of gold. He thinks about his wife, rearranging his room before arranging herself in his bed and stinking up his sheets with her perfume. He thinks about his sister, who used to be for him what Lip is for Ian.
He thinks about the smile on Ian’s face.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “You’ll see me.”