Work Text:
“Black cow!” Ian hollered, sliding a footed glass of plain rootbeer gently down the counter toward a pretty blonde in a sunflower yellow sweater and matching gingham dress. She was waiting with her hands splayed open and her lip tucked nervously under her teeth. She squeaked and closed her eyes as she caught her beverage, a ring of foam bobbing around the surface while the red-and-white striped straw spun in a dizzy circle.
Ian grinned at her and set another glass on the counter, this one a vanilla soda with chocolate cream. He aimed it at the broad-shouldered boy in the letterman jacket seated next to the girl in yellow, announced, “Canary Island special!,” and gave it a hearty shove. It skimmed along a little faster, and the guy caught it a spare second before it went crashing over the edge and onto the floor, flashing a smug smile at the girl while she giggled at his needless display of dexterity.
Ian nodded to them both and turned just as the bell over the door tinkled, heralding the entry of a new customer.
“Welcome to K&K Corner Drug - ” he started, only to falter when he recognized the man sidling up to the counter. He darted a cautious glance to the couple at the other end to be sure they didn’t need anything else and then strode over, his usual smile of greeting flattened into an unimpressed scowl.
“What’s’a matter, Red?” Mickey Milkovich grinned, leaning his elbow on the counter and rapping his knuckles against the glossy red laminate. The motion left behind a greasy smear. Whether it was actual engine oil—from Mickey’s work at the auto shop, or from futzing around with own motorcycle, or from one of the rusted out ‘fixer-uppers’ littering the yard of his family home—was anybody’s guess. It could just as easily have been pomade. As if on cue, Mickey reached up and swept a stray tendril of dark hair up off his forehead and into his shiny Folsom slickback. “Figured you’d be happy to see me.”
“Depends,” Ian said, curling his fingers over the counter and squaring up to Mickey with his chin jutting forward the way it always did when he was irritated. “You planning to ninety-five me again?”
Mickey rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket, producing a couple of loose coins and a crumpled bill. “Got your money right here, Gallagher,” he said, tossing the lot of it onto the counter. “With interest.”
Ian didn’t bother counting it. Hell, he didn’t so much as look away from Mickey’s face as he scooped the cash into his hand and stuffed it into the pocket of his crisp white slacks.
“Great,” he said, nodding toward the door. “We’re all settled up, so you can go ahead and scram.”
Mickey sucked his teeth, swiveling on the stool so he could fold both his arms against the counter, shoulders bunching just slightly toward his ears.
“Come on, man,” he muttered, darting a quick glance to the patrons dotting the counter to ensure that none of them were seated close enough to witness it when he reached out and plucked at Ian’s sleeve. His fingers left a dark smudge—so it was oil, then. Or some other vehicular lubricant of questionable provenance. Ian frowned down at it, even as Mickey continued with a sly smile, “Don’t be like that. I thought we were friends.”
“Most of my friends don’t steal from me,” Ian retorted.
Mickey shrugged, unconcerned. “Guess you’re lucky you got me then, huh? Keeps your life interesting.”
Ian shook his head and turned to the prep counter at his back so Mickey wouldn’t see him fighting back a smile. He didn't want to find Mickey charming or amusing or otherwise worthy of forgiveness, right now. He grabbed a damp towel from where it was slung over the lip of the sink and started scrubbing the wood clean with short, hard strokes.
“You plan to order something or did you just come in to waste my time?” Ian asked over his shoulder.
“Little of both, I guess.”
Ian darted a glance to the angled mirror running the length of the ceiling over the soda fountain and flushed when he found Mickey looking directly at him, their eyes meeting in the reflection.
“Fine,” he huffed, throwing the rag into the sink with a wet plop and wheeling around to glare at Mickey, whose good mood appeared to have been buoyed by Ian’s misery. “What do you want?”
“Gimme one of them - ” Mickey squinted up at the menu, tonguing his lower lip. “What d’you call it? That thing you gave me last time.” He flashed Ian a grin that was halfway to a leer.
A bright spark of heat dropped into Ian’s belly at the sudden, visceral memory of Mickey, bent over a crate full of maraschino cherries with his Levi’s down around his thighs and his stupid leather jacket rucked up his back, moaning as Ian rocked into him. Ian huffed a sigh through his nose, leaned back against the prep counter, and arched his eyebrows, twisting his mouth in fake, saccharine apology.
“Fresh out,” he said. “Sorry.”
Mickey looked honestly surprised at that. He tilted his head toward the swinging door at the other end of the room. “You wanna check the back?”
“Just did inventory this morning,” Ian shrugged. “Trust me, we’re out.”
“Fine,” Mickey snapped, hands curling into fists as his blue eyes went narrow and flinty. “What do you recommend, then, Pop Boy?”
“Not calling me Pop Boy, for one,” Ian warned.
“Ian - ” Mickey started, and then stopped himself, pressing his mouth into an irritated pucker and wrinkling his nose. He took a slow, angry breath and muttered, “Just gimme a chocolate malt. Thick.”
“Shake one cha, pave it, and make it dusty!” Ian hollered, reaching out to ring the bell on the counter because he knew for a fact Mickey hated the pageantry of it all. The rest of the patrons whooped, a few of them going so far as to actually clap from their booths or their seats at the counter, while Mickey hunched in on himself and shot Ian a poisonous glare.
Ian threw the shake together with practiced motions, making a show of tossing the ice cream scoop behind his back and dropping the malted milk powder in from a height that made it burst against the sides of the glass in a little cloud. After he'd blended everything together, he flipped the cup over to illustrate that the shake was so thick it wouldn’t spill back out of its own accord. He grinned when that inspired another round of muted clapping, and capped the whole thing off with an elegant swirl of whipped cream, sticking three maraschino cherries on top, mostly to irritate Mickey even further.
“Better not be a fuckin’ C.O. special,” Mickey groused, when Ian flung the glass carelessly down in front of him, a little froth of whipped cream spilling over the side.
“Only one way to find out,” Ian smirked, though he was bluffing.
He had only purposefully fed castor oil to a handful of people over the many years he’d worked at the K&K Corner Drugstore, and every one of them had deserved it. Especially Mr. Barnes, the history teacher who’d been making passes at Mickey’s little sister back in the sophomore year class she and Ian had shared just because she wore tight pants and dark make-up. Hell, if it hadn’t been for that particular C.O. special, Ian and Mickey might never have met.
Mickey could be thoughtless at times, but he didn’t deserve to spend an afternoon suffering the trots just because he’d walked out without paying his tab. He probably hadn’t even realized it at the time, which had only served to make Ian more furious when he thought about it later.
Mickey picked one of the cherries up and plucked it off the stem with his teeth, glowering at Ian the whole while. Ian snorted and returned his attention to tidying his station.
Mickey stuck around for the better part of an hour, working his way through his slowly melting malt and flicking the occasional irritated glare in Ian’s direction as he schmoozed the rest of the patrons, pointedly ignoring Mickey on the far end of the bar. At one point, Mickey got up and stomped over to the jukebox in the corner. He flipped through the track listings for a long moment, before jabbing viciously at the keys and stalking back over to throw himself down onto his stool.
Ten minutes or so later, Ian was elbow-deep in soap suds when the Impalas started crooning, “Sorry, sorry, oh so sorry,” over the speaker system. He nearly dropped the glass he was washing, catching it at the last second and sloshing dingy water all over his pristine white apron in the process.
He heard Mickey laugh—even over the swinging doo-wop horns and the Impalas chorusing, “And now I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry,”—and turned to glare at him, but Mickey just grinned back, broad and smug. He’d made a sizable dent in his milkshake and was stirring the remaining dregs around the bottom of the tapered glass with lazy little twists of his straw.
“Very smooth, soda pop.”
Ian clenched his jaw and glanced around the fountain. Though there were quite a few people milling about the drugstore proper, this side was mostly empty at the moment, only the girl in the yellow sweater and her varsity boyfriend still lingering where they were making eyes at each other over their glasses. Ian lifted his apron off—careful not to knock his bowtie askew—and folded it into a sloppy square. He tossed it onto the prep counter and looked over at Mickey, who had picked his straw up out of his glass and was chewing on the bottom of it.
Ian jerked his head to the other end of the room. Mickey’s grin curled sharp at the corners, all his teeth on display. He dropped his straw into his glass with a soft clink and clambered off his stool, strolling toward the steel-plated door with his hands in his pockets and shouldering his way into the back hall like he had every right to be there.
The young couple were too engrossed in each other to even notice him passing by.
Ian wandered in their direction, pasting his patented customer service smile into place as he said, “You two doing all right?”
“Hm?” The girl turned and blinked up at Ian like she was surprised to find him standing there. “Oh, yes. Perfect.” She giggled and looked back at the boy, who seemed likewise besotted by her very presence.
“Great!” Ian said, and meant it. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got to pop into the back to grab a few things, but ring the bell if you need me.”
The boy offered an absent nod and Ian, figuring he’d done his due diligence as far as job responsibilities went, followed after Mickey.
When Ian caught up with him, he found Mickey at the back of the stockroom, lounging on a box of canned goods and blowing wobbly smoke rings out the window Ian kept cracked for his own illicit cigarette breaks.
“You’re an asshole,” Ian said, drawing up in front of him and crossing his arms over his chest.
Mickey chuckled and stubbed his cigarette out against the windowsill, flicking the butt into the alley outside. “I’m in good company, then, huh?” he teased, reaching out to knock his boot against Ian’s dress shoe, which had been polished to a high shine.
“Mickey,” Ian snapped, irritated, and shifted his foot away.
“Ian,” Mickey parroted in the same tone, kicking at him again, harder.
Ian sighed and rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. He felt a pressure at his waistband and glanced down to discover that Mickey had hooked two fingers through his belt loop, familiar and possessive. It made Ian’s belly swoop even as he seriously considering swatting Mickey’s hand away.
“Come on, Red,” Mickey coaxed, guiding Ian in to stand between his knees with a series of careful tugs and tipping his head up in that sweet, easy way that never failed to tempt Ian to lean in for a kiss. He refrained, this time, and Mickey pressed, “I said I was sorry.”
“Technically, the Impalas said they were sorry.”
Mickey huffed a harsh, irritated breath and yanked at Ian’s belt loop. “The fuck else you want me to do, huh? I didn’t stiff you on purpose.”
“You know what I’m saving that money for.”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he muttered. “You want to haul my ass halfway across the country to Cali-fucking-fornia and live out some stupid beach fantasy.”
“It isn’t stupid,” Ian protested. “We could be safe in San Francisco, Mick. Think about it! They’ve got whole neighborhoods full of people like us. We could be together, there. For real. House, dog, white picket fence—the whole nine.”
“Goddamnit, Ian,” Mickey shook his head and turned away, dropping his hand from Ian’s hip like the point of contact had burned him.
“I know you want it, too,” Ian pushed, stepping in even closer and pressing his hands to the wall at Mickey’s back, effectively boxing him in.
Mickey slouched down and didn’t look at him, jaw tight.
Ian swallowed around the sudden, painful knot of doubt that had lodged in the back of his throat, and leaned down to rest his temple against the crown of Mickey’s head, heedless of the sticky, perfumed pomade therein.
“Tell me you want that, Mick,” he murmured, voice small. “Tell me you want to be with me. Don’t you?”
Mickey sighed, shifting and wiggling under Ian until he could slump forward far enough to get an arm around Ian’s waist and rest his cheek against the lower rungs of Ian’s ribs.
“‘Course I want to fucking be with you,” he muttered, dragging his palm in soothing strokes over the small of Ian’s back. “I just - California’s a long way away, man. You got your family here, your friends. You’re going to school. You got a whole fucking life in Chicago. Why you want to ruin all that just to run off to the West Coast with some dumb greaser who can’t even remember to pay for a goddamn milkshake?”
“Hey,” Ian said softly into Mickey’s hair, “I love that dumb greaser, all right?” He paused for a second and then added, “Besides, he’s got a really nice ass.”
Mickey laughed in a warm gust against Ian’s chest, and Ian shifted one of his hands up to brush his knuckles over Mickey’s temple.
“Definitely worth abandoning my very lucrative career as a soda jerk for,” he teased, drawling the words 'soda jerk' with appropriate derision.
Mickey laughed again, a little louder this time, and slipped his other arm around Ian so he was wrapped up in a proper hug. Ian did the same, tightening his arms around Mickey’s shoulders in turn. They sat there for a few long moments, just breathing each other in, until the intimacy got to Mickey the way it always did, eventually, and he started squirming in Ian’s grasp.
Ian let him go, leaning back just enough to create the illusion of space, though he stayed well within Mickey’s orbit. Not that Mickey would have let him get far, anyway, considering how he tightened his knees against Ian's like he wasn't even aware he was doing it.
“So,” Mickey said, rubbing at his lower lip with his thumb. “California.”
“Cali-fucking-fornia,” Ian agreed, nodding.
“When you thinking we’re gonna go?”
Ian lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “Maybe in the spring? Gives us time to save up, and we can get settled in before the weather gets too hot.”
Mickey hummed, thoughtful, and hooked one of his feet around Ian’s ankle with an absent, affectionate sweep of his leg. “How much you figure we’ll need to get us started?”
“Hundred bucks?” Ian offered. “Maybe more, just to be safe.”
Mickey licked his teeth, brow furrowing, and Ian’s stomach roiled with nerves. He slid his hand over Mickey’s shoulder to ground himself, not stopping until he’d slipped it high enough to curl around the side of Mickey’s throat, fingers just brushing the downy hairs at the nape of Mickey’s neck.
“All right.” Mickey nodded and rolled his shoulders back—steeling himself, rather than shaking Ian off. “I got a few oil changes lined up next week, and I can probably talk Old Man Travers into a new set of tires when he comes to pick up his fucking jalopy at the end of the month. Skim a little off the top of each of those and that’s five, ten bucks, easy.” When Ian didn't say anything, Mickey shrugged, flicking a quick, self-conscious glance up at Ian's flabbergasted face. "I mean, it ain't much, but it's a start, right?"
“Mickey,” Ian croaked, when he finally got his breath back. His voice was thick and his throat dry. He stroked his thumb along the tendon in Mickey's neck, sweeping under the collar of his jacket. His chest was tight with a giddy, riotous pressure and his eyes were stinging at the corners.
Mickey clicked his tongue and rested his hands on Ian’s hips, tilting his head back to grin up at him.
“Don’t go getting soft on me now, Gallagher,” he murmured, low and sweet and and teasing.
This time, Ian leaned down and kissed him for all he was worth.