Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ian’s life was a careful balance. 

In the past, it had been the farthest thing from balanced. It had been highs and lows and extremes, building and crashing like waves, ruining himself over and over again. It had been violent swings from one type of crazy to the next. He could never quite walk the line. He could never keep himself from getting sucked in one way or the other. It was so fast, so frenzied, that he never even felt it coming until he woke up on the other side, destroyed, torn apart, and empty. He would tumble out on the other end, only to become aware that it would happen all over again soon, and that was the most painful part of all, he thought.

Since then, things had been good, though. Not great, but good enough, and he wanted it to at least stay that way for now. 

Ian had come back home a few years ago following the military incident. It had felt like admitting defeat, but it was that or… well, he didn’t really know. He didn’t like to think too hard about it. 

Soon after, Fiona got him into therapy and he actually started taking his meds consistently, despite the fact that he still felt a bitter taste rise in his throat and a knot in his stomach when he downed them. At first, talking to a complete stranger had sucked, but then it slowly started to grow on him. Whenever he told Fiona or Lip how he was feeling, he always saw this little crease between their eyes - they both shared it, whether it was genetic or simply a product of everything they had shouldered over the years. Ian could tell that whenever he shared something with them, they were mentally adding it to their checklist, putting one more problem on their plate. They would never admit it to him in a million years, but he could tell that it stressed them out. He hated it.

Talking to a stranger was different. Her face was always completely still and neutral. She never so much as frowned, even at some of the more gruesome details of Ian’s illness, and she mostly just nodded along as he spoke. It wasn’t her problem, and she wouldn’t take it home with her. After a few months of sessions, Ian realized that he was actually starting to feel lighter when he left. Maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

Once he had really started to adjust to his medication, Lip decided to help him finish the last of his high school credits. He came home between college lectures, which Ian had felt guilty about at first, but Lip had insisted. Truth be told, he had missed spending time with his brother. They used to tell everything to each other - Lip was the first one to know for sure that Ian was gay - and he ached for that bond sometimes. 

So, the two of them spent their time up in their old room, flipping through flashcards and smoking through the window.

Although it took a while for him to feel confident enough (particularly because he sucked at math and hated studying it with his entire soul), Ian finally took the GED, and became the third Gallagher to get past high school in one way or another. After months more of studying and tutoring from Lip, he sat the SAT and ACT, and he did alright. Not great, not by any stretch of the imagination, but well enough to get in somewhere , and that was enough for him.

The following summer he slowly saved up for a halfway decent refurbished laptop and enrolled in his first semester of online college classes. He had always been pretty good at English, so he spent his evenings churning out as many scholarship essays as he could stand to write. In the end, he had received a small grant and a couple of moderate scholarships - nothing compared to Lip’s full ride scholarship - but enough for him to get by while working on weekends and picking up other shifts where he could. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it kept him busy. He studied psychology and wrote essays in the afternoons, his laptop perched on his lap in the upstairs of the Gallagher home. He waited tables and bartender in the evenings. It drove him forward, it gave him a goal. He liked having a goal, even if it paled in comparison to others.

Originally, he had started bartending for Kevin at the Alibi, just to get him up on his feet. He knew that they couldn’t pay him well, though, and that business had been slow. Besides, they had kids to support. So he began job searching, dug through the newspapers, scrolled through local Facebook pages, and finally, he found The Freight Train.

The Freight Train had been opening at the end of October. He could tell right away that it was one of “those” places. They carried weird foreign liquor and made gourmet mac n’ cheese, but it was still a job, and the owners - Eli and Johanna - had been surprisingly open and nice to him when he came in for the interview. Sure, they were hipsters, but at least they didn’t lie about it. They were proud, and something about that drew Ian in. It made him say yes.

So for the past year he put up with the rhythmless acoustic music and served bizarre fancy food paired with cocktails that even Frank had never heard of before, and he found he didn’t mind. Although Ian was all authentic, no-bullshit Southside, he fit in better at The Freight Train than he had anywhere else. It had been almost a year since he started, and he actually made friends in that time. He never had much luck in that department before, besides his siblings who had to be nice to him, and men that were only half-decent to him so that he would hookup with them. Not to mention he wasn’t all that bad at his job, either. He was surprisingly good at making the hippies like him, and he always pulled in more tips than the rest of the servers. He never got in trouble and he got a raise within the first three months.

All in all, it was a careful balance, and it was fine. Maybe a little lonely, but fine.

Ian had never really given much thought to his romantic life, either. In his post-diagnosis world, he had just figured that there was really no hope for him in terms of relationships, and he had begun to accept that. He had seen how well it had turned out for Frank and Monica and he would rather be alone forever than live out that life. That didn’t mean he didn’t have needs, though. Sure, he wasn’t looking for his soulmate or anything close to that, but he didn’t intend to resort to total celibacy. It was just complicated, was all. Southside Chicago wasn’t exactly the easiest place to find young, out, and attractive gay men, especially when you’re avoiding the bar scene.

Ian spent a lot of time mulling this over while he worked, if he was honest. He watched couples of all sorts come in, grab drinks, share meals, and laugh with each other. They touched each other’s arms and leaned against each other’s shoulders. Some of them just looked at each other in a certain way, with their eyes gleaming and hopeful, and it was just too hard to watch. He knew it couldn’t be him, but it still made his chest hurt all the same. 

He really was trying to accept it. It just fucking sucked sometimes was all.

Ian was pushing these particular thoughts out of his head on a quiet Thursday night, trying to lose himself in his job and find something else to focus on. He had spent the day trying to get ahead on some readings for next week, and headed over to The Freight Train for his shift by three o’clock.

He swept a wet rag across the counter when the bell above the door chimed. He straightened up, ready to give his usual greeting, when all at once his stomach sank and the blood rushed from his face. 

Standing in front of him was Mickey fucking Milkovich.

Oh shit.

He hadn’t seen Mickey in years - since high school, he was sure - and it felt like seeing a fucking ghost. He remembered running from him and his brothers with Lip, hiding in the back room at the Kash and Grab to spare himself a beating, and generally trying to keep out of Mickey’s way if at all possible. He had always figured that Mickey had been sentenced to life in prison by now, and seeing him in front of him almost made him sick. 

“Gallagher!” Mickey exclaimed, striding towards the counter, hands stuffed in his pocket. He was wearing a navy blue zip-up hoodie and dark wash jeans, torn in one knee and covered in white paint splatters.

Ian’s eyes fell to the hands that were concealed in his pockets. What was he hiding? Handgun? Switchblade? 

“Don’t come any closer!” Ian grabbed instinctively for the bat that was stowed on the bottom shelf, his heart thundering. Johanna had called it ‘ridiculous’ at the time, but this was still the Southside, and Ian wasn’t going to be made a fool of. If they couldn’t keep a gun behind the register they at least needed something that could make an impact. He pulled it out from under the counter and brandished it, breathing hard.

Mickey stumbled backwards, putting his hands up and shouting. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ! Put that down, I’m not here to rob you!” 

Ian eyed him frantically, only lowering the bat slightly, but still keeping his grip firm. He had heard that line before, he remembered. Mickey had constantly stolen from him at the Kash and Grab, to the point where it had become part of his daily routine. He also remembered Mickey threatening to send his brothers in to cut his fingers off if he tried anything funny.

Mickey kept his hands in the air in surrender. He looked angry, but also unsure, and his eyes darted around the room.  “Look, I’m just here to see Johanna,” he bit out.

“You are?” Ian questioned skeptically. What could his boss possibly be discussing with Mickey Milkovich?

“Yes, fuck, she here?” Mickey asked, exasperated.

Ian finally began to put the bat down, feeling his heartbeat slow. It still felt like a trap, in a way, but at least he could be reasonably sure that Mickey wasn’t about to pull a pistol out of his waistband. There was a moment of silence before he gave in. He moved cautiously towards the door to the back room. “Follow me.”

He led Mickey through the winding back hallway, dodging the puddles where the pipes had begun to leak down onto the cracked concrete floor below. Ian periodically snuck glances over his shoulder, hating the feeling of having his back turned to him. They moved between shelving units of extra supplies, finally coming to the white dented door at the end. 

A dry-erase board hung from the door, with “JO” scrawled across it, surrounded by doodles of little flowers and hearts in different colours. Ian knocked on the door and stepped back. There was a rustling on the other side before it swung open.

Johanna came to the doorway, smiling up at the two of them. She was wrapped in a woven yellow cardigan, the bright colour contrasting against her dark skin and long braids. She pulled it tighter around her chest and shivered in the cool, damp hallway.

“Hi! Sorry, working on payroll,” Johanna said, breathless.

Ian stood, dumbfounded, and she reached out and shook Mickey’s hand. It felt like a weird, Twilight zone dream.

Johanna looked between the two of them and smiled. “Come in,” she said, waving Mickey into her office. She turned and looked over her shoulder with another warm grin. “Thanks, Ian!”

Ian watched as Mickey slipped into the small room and the door shut behind him, leaving him alone in the hall. He stood for a moment, contemplating pressing an ear to the door to eavesdrop, but then thought better of it. He stayed outside the door and his mind raced. Should he be worried? Should he warn Jo, tell her who Mickey really was? Maybe he had pulled her into one of the Milkovich’s infamous schemes, and she had no idea that she was a victim. Maybe he was trying to gain her trust so that he and his brothers could break in later somehow and pawn off the fancy kitchen equipment, or pull out the copper pipes. Johanna wasn’t stupid by any means, but she did have a habit of being too trusting, and Mickey… well, who would trust Mickey?

The dinging sound of the service bell at the front counter pulled Ian from his thoughts, and he headed back out. He served the young blonde professional waiting at the counter, working on autopilot, but he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering as he did so. 

He was scrubbing away at the espresso machine half an hour later when Mickey came back out through the “Employees Only” door. Mickey walked through the restaurant without a word, or even an acknowledgement of Ian’s existence, his hands buried deep in his pockets again. He pushed right through the front door without so much as a glance over his shoulder. It swung shut behind him, leaving Ian to piece it all together. 

Seriously, what the fuck?

-:-

It was Sunday afternoon before Ian finally got the balls to say something.

He had been thinking about it all weekend, his mind trying desperately to fill in the blanks and failing. It just didn’t make any sense. Mickey was... he was a Milkovich. He was a drug running, gun slinging, shit talking asshole from the Yards who didn’t have a thing in common with Johanna, or Eli, or any of the customers at The Freight Train. Surely they wouldn’t be offering him a job , and if they did, what would he even do there? Wait tables? Bartend? Ian had learned quickly that you had to have a certain tolerance for bullshit in the service industry, and Mickey and tolerant didn’t really belong in the same sentence.

The weekend had been too busy, though, to really think about mentioning it to Eli or Jo. Sunday morning had brought a pretty intense brunch rush, but by two o’clock the sunny cheer of the morning dissipated into a rainy afternoon and the steady stream of customers died off. Johanna took off to the grocery store to beat the crowds, and left Ian by himself with Eli and a new trainee named Grace to clean and play catch-up for the week to come.

Ian was carefully wrapping silverware, listening to the low roll of thunder when Eli came back in the room.

Eli counted out rolls of change and marked them down on a clipboard while Ian snuck glances his way. He was a short, stocky man, with pale, freckled skin and wild brown hair. He screamed typical hipster in every sense - his wool socks, his plaid button downs, his thick moustache - but he wasn’t a total dick about it. He was nice, laid back, and he rarely gave Ian shit for much of anything, which Ian appreciated in a boss.

“What does Jo want with Mickey?” Ian finally blurted out, unable to contain himself. He set down a roll of cutlery.

Eli popped open the register and shoved his thick-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Who?” he asked, half-distracted as he dropped in a roll of nickels.

“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian replied. He shifted his weight nervously back and forth, trying to keep his voice unbothered. “He was here on Thursday. He wanted to talk to Jo.” 

Eli’s unruly eyebrows drew together in thought, then the realization came to him. “Ah! The street artist?”

“Street artist?” Ian was unable to contain his laugh. “No, I don’t think-”

“Yeah! He’s the guy with the dark hair, tattoos? A bit abrasive? He’s gonna do the mural on the side of our building.”

Ian blinked, taken aback. Sure, Eli had given him a pretty spot on description of Mickey Milkovich - you know, besides the guns, drugs, and gang beatings. However, the only street art Ian ever remembered Mickey creating was when he spray painted “ Ian Gallagher is a Dead Man ” on a building near the Kash and Grab, which at the time had scared him shitless. Now, as a distant memory, it more or less just pissed him off.

“Mickey does street art?” Ian asked, mostly talking out loud to himself.

“Yeah,” Eli replied. He slammed the register shut. “A friend of Jo’s bought up an old diner in Englewood that had been vacant for a couple of years, so the front had been vandalized pretty bad. There was a bunch of graffiti, but some of it was kind of cool, you know? They didn’t want to just paint over it and have some lame white wall, so they paid a street artist that they heard about to do a mural piece on the front of the building, thought it might draw people in. He did an awesome job. Jo thought maybe he could do something on the wall in the alley, since everyone has to go through there to park out back anyways.”

Ian pondered this, staring at a bin of forks and knives on the table in front of him. There had to be some kind of mix-up. Mickey Milkovich, painting murals? He had always been handy with a spray paint can before, but it had usually been to intimidate his latest victims, not to create an actual art piece. 

“So he’s going to paint a mural… here?” 

Eli nodded, coming around the counter to grab some napkins and start helping Ian. “Yeah, for the next few weeks I think. Jo said his preliminary sketches are really good.”

“It’s just, I went to school with the guy, and back then his only income source was stealing from convenience stores and selling drugs. Not like your drugs, real drugs.” Ian shook his head, wrapping up another set of utensils. “He definitely was not the artsy type.”

Eli shrugged. “Well, people change, right?” he said lightheartedly. “Maybe he’s totally different now.”

Ian mulled this over, images of Mickey’s shitty knuckle tattoos, his concealed weapons, and bright red letters on the side of the Kash and Grab flashing through his mind.

Different, sure.

-:-

Ian couldn’t help but take a different route home that night. It added an extra fifteen minutes to his walk, but he didn’t mind. He actually liked his walks home, even when the weather was cold, or shitty. It gave him time to decompress.

He liked work, he liked school, and he liked being around his family for the most part, but all of that kept his mind busy. Busy was a good thing, but sometimes Ian liked to have time to just be in his own world without anything to distract him. He liked to take just a few minutes to slow down. If he did it for too long it became dangerous - again, it was all about balance in his life - but it did help him to think things through when he needed to. 

So, he walked up the Milkovich’s street.

He hadn’t really heard much about any of the Milkovich kids since high school. He had heard offhand through Kevin’s bar gossip that Terry had died about a year before. He had prostate cancer, apparently, and he was only out of jail for a few weeks before it took him, which was no real loss anyways. Half of the neighbourhood had celebrated like it was the fourth of July, and he was pretty sure a few people even set off fireworks.

Mandy… well, he hadn’t heard from Mandy in a while. She was still in town, he assumed, since he had seen her not that long ago on the L, but she had rushed off at her stop before he could say something. Ian wasn’t sure if he would have said anything, anyways. They had been friends before the whole military incident, but things had changed. Although Lip wouldn’t give many details, Ian knew that their breakup was nasty, and she would probably avoid the Gallagher home forever now. Who could blame her, really?

The other brothers - who Ian could barely remember the names of - had been around, still. They were still keeping up the family drug and weapons ring, although not nearly to the same degree as when Terry was alive. They were still laying down beatings and appearing on wanted posters, though, so it seemed like it was close to business as usual. Ian had always assumed that Mickey had stuck with it, too. There had to be some kind of brains running the operation, he had thought, and Mickey was by far the smartest out of all of them. 

Now, though, it felt like Ian had no idea what Mickey had been doing at all. Maybe he had been wrong this entire time. 

He let out a long breath as he grew closer to the Milkovich’s house, shrugging his shoulders and burying himself deeper in the dark grey hoodie he was wearing. He always got a chill on this street, even on a decent fall day. 

As he came upon the house, he noticed that the front yard looked like it always had. There were beer cans strewn across the front steps, an old broken down riding mower parked up against the deck, and cigarette butts dotting the lawn. The door was shut the curtains were pulled tight, showing nothing but dark brown velvet to the world outside. A shutter hung sideways from the trim of the front window, rotten and letting go.

For a moment, Ian wanted to stop. He wanted to march right up the stairs and knock on the front door. He wanted to see inside, see what it was like now that Terry was gone, to see if anything had changed. Deep down, he wondered if Mickey even still lived there.

He shook his head. He hadn’t been there since he was fifteen and hanging around Mandy. He had no reason to even be walking on their street, let alone knocking on their door. It was none of his damn business, anyways. Ian put his head down and trudged on, flipping his hood up and kicking at one of the Old Style cans that had strayed out onto the sidewalk. He was almost past their neighbour’s walkway when he heard a female voice come from behind him.

“Ian?”

Ian turned around, and found himself face-to-face with Mandy Milkovich.

She stood in front of their walkway in a tan corduroy dress and black ballet flats. A dark brown purse was slung over her shoulder. Her makeup was much more toned down than Ian remembered, and her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail in a clean and simple way. She was holding a large, furry squirrel hat under her arm, with “WAFFLE COTTAGE” embroidered in red across the front.

“Mandy,” Ian said, his mouth falling open slightly. He really wasn’t expecting to run into her, even though he was practically standing in her front yard. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I, uh… how are you?”

“I’m alright.” Mandy gave a half smile, gesturing to the squirrel hat in her hands. “Employee of the week, actually. What are you doing here?”

“Just out for a walk,” Ian replied with a shrug. “Taking the long way home. So... you work at Waffle Cottage now?” 

“Yeah,” Mandy sighed. “Been there for a couple of years. Pay’s alright, tips are decent. What about you? What have you been up to?”

Ian nodded back towards the way he came. “I’ve been working at a restaurant a few blocks over, The Freight Train. I’m going to school though, online,” he looked away sheepishly. He always felt nervous when he talked about school out loud, for some reason. It was as if he was going to jinx it somehow if he said it too loudly.

Mandy raised her eyebrows, looking impressed. “Wow, good for you,” she praised. “I always knew you were smart enough to get in.” 

Ian smiled at this, and Mandy smiled back. It was a warm grin that he remembered from when they were friends, and some might think it looked out of place on her usually scowling face, but it never did to Ian. He realized all at once how much he had actually missed her. Sure, he had friends now. He had Jo and Eli and some of his other co-workers, and he really did like them, but they never really got him like Mandy did. They didn’t grow up like he and Mandy did.

“Thanks,” Ian replied, trying to hide the blush creeping up into his cheeks. “You look good, by the way.”

Mandy looked down, smiling still. “Thanks. You too. I should probably, uh, get going,” she nodded towards their front door. “It was good seeing you, Ian.”

“Right, yeah,” Ian took a couple of steps backwards. “It was good seeing you, too.”

She gave a small wave goodbye, turning and heading up the pathway to the Milkovich house that loomed in front of them. Ian was about to turn around and head back towards his own home when he felt something tugging at him, forcing him to stay, forcing him to open his mouth and call out. 

“Hey, Mandy!”

She turned around.

“Are you… would you maybe want to get lunch, or something?” Ian asked nervously. 

Mandy’s smile spread across her face again, and she almost seemed to light up. “Um, sure,” she replied with a smile, toying with the hat in her hands.

Ian nodded again, grinning. “Okay, great.”

“Great.”

There was a long beat of silence, and the two stared at each other, unsure what to do next. It had been so long since they had actually seen each other, let alone made plans to hang out, and they were two completely different people now. Yet somehow, it was like things hadn’t changed at all. Ian finally gave a wave.

“See you around!” he said, walking backwards up the sidewalk.

Mandy smiled again. “See ya.”

-:-

Monday was bright and sunny, but cold. Ian walked to work for his evening shift in the chilly fall air, enjoying the feeling of warmth whenever the sun spread across face. It was an unusually clear day, the clouds from the night before having drifted on across Lake Michigan, and every once and a while a sharp breeze would come through and rustle the changing leaves. He walked past the elementary school, and kids poured out from the front doors, shouting, running, and climbing on to the school buses that idled in the parking lot. 

It almost made Ian smile, but it also brought about a pang of nostalgia. School had never really been fun for Ian when he was a kid, and it’s not like he had the most functional of childhoods, but he still had some good memories. He missed taking his energy out on school sports, conspiring with Lip during recesses, learning about places and things far away from his underfunded Chicago classroom… most of all, he missed his pre-diagnosis life. He would always miss that the most.

Ian turned the corner and headed up the last block before the Freight Train. Cars passed him, turning at the stoplight. Some were occupied by busy soccer moms and children, while some reverberated with the low bass of a rap song, a testament to the strange mix their neighbourhood had become.

When he arrived for his shift ten minutes early, he took his time in the back room, shaking off his extra layers and changing into his burgundy apron. He noticed a bright pink and blue box of donuts on the table with a post-it note stating “ Eat me!” and quickly grabbed a chocolate dip. He took a bite, enjoying the sugar rush, when Johanna slipped through, heading for the main kitchen. 

“Hey, Ian!” she said with a wide smile. It was one of those overwhelmingly friendly smiles that was insanely contagious, and Ian always found himself returning it, even if he wasn’t in the mood to. She tugged on her own apron strings and tightened it around her waist, then gestured to the other side of the building. “Could you take out the trash when you’ve got a chance? It’s getting a little ripe.”

Ian nodded, swallowing his mouthful of donut. “Yeah, sure thing.”

“Thanks! You’re a peach,” she flashed him another smile and spun on her heel, sweeping through the doors into the kitchen.

Ian dusted the crumbs off his hands on his jeans. Truth be told, he kind of hated changing the trash. It was always sticky and stinky, and people were forever throwing half full coffee cups or cans of pop into it. He crossed the dining area, which was mostly empty. There were a few occupied tables and a couple of young women seated at the bar top, but he knew the rush would pick up shortly and he would be run off his feet for at least an hour or two. He grabbed the full bags out and replaced them with new ones, tying them off and heading for the side entrance to the alleyway, trying his best to ignore the incredibly ripe smell that was wafting in his face. Jesus, no wonder Johanna didn’t want to do this, he thought.

He pushed open the back door with his hip, stepping backwards into the alley and closing his eyes against the overwhelming sunlight. The fresh air hit his face and killed out the smell of rotting morning coffee, but brought about a new type of stench - paint.

Ian opened his eyes, still holding the trash bag in his hand.

Mickey Milkovich stood at the bottom of a ladder, staring up at the towering wall in front of him, a look of contemplation on his face. He held a roller dripping with black paint in one hand and a rag in the other. It seemed he was lost in his own thoughts and hadn’t even noticed Ian’s presence, until Ian finally cleared his throat nervously, causing him to jump.

“Sorry,” Ian said sheepishly. “Just taking out the trash,” he held the bag up.

Mickey eyed him for a moment. “Whatever.” 

He turned back to the wall, honing in his focus once again.

Ian hopped down off the step and let the door ease shut behind him. He tossed the hefty trash bag into the dumpster, hearing it crash on top of the other garbage, and started to turn around. Something stopped him, however, when he looked up at the wall above him. He held his hand up to shield the late afternoon sun from his eyes and stared at what he assumed were the beginnings of Mickey’s mural. 

Mickey had painted a rectangular black base nearly fifteen feet high and twenty feet wide across the bricks. It wasn’t perfectly square, it was rough around the edges, but it seemed like the beginning of something big. The texture of the red brick showed through the thick paint. It made the alley feel more compact, but taller, and more overwhelming.

Ian watched as Mickey dropped the roller into the tray and squatted down, shuffling through some papers that looked like they might be sketches. Ian leaned forward, trying to get a closer look, when Mickey looked quickly over his shoulder.

“The fuck you looking at?” he snapped.

Ian ignored this, curiosity getting the better of him as always. “Those your like... sketches, or whatever?” he questioned.

“What’s it to you?”

Ian couldn’t help but take a couple of cautious steps forward. Despite his best judgment, he really wanted to see whatever it was Mickey was planning on painting. He still couldn’t really fathom that the guy was an artist , and it was one of those things he felt like he needed to see to believe. He finally got close enough to get a glimpse of one of the drawings - a rough outline of an old style steam engine. He could see swatches of colour on the sheet beneath it, the bright reds, yellows, and purple peeking out from underneath.

“You’re gonna paint a train, then?” Ian asked. He tried to push down the nervous twist in his stomach - probably an unfortunate byproduct of spending many childhood years expecting Mickey Milkovich to take his knees out with a crowbar.

Mickey let out a frustrated sigh. “Maybe. Why the fuck do you care?”

“Just curious. Didn’t really take you for a painter.”

Mickey grunted, “Don’t you have, like, a job to do?” He gestured to the door and stood up, then wiped his hands with the rag and cracked his neck.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ian answered. 

“Then go do it.”

Ian rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Instead he grabbed his key ring from his apron pocket and went back through the side door. He slipped out of the alley and back into the safety of the restaurant, but his brain was still filled with images of the small pieces of Mickey’s sketches he had seen. He wished he had seen more. He wished that he could picture the end result, but he was never really a creative type. 

The sketches flashed through his mind for the rest of his shift, and he almost didn’t hear when Mickey came back through the side door at sundown. The dinner rush had tapered off, leaving a couple of tables sipping on wine and a few college kids drinking draft beers at the bartop. Grace, the new hire, moved between them and gathered used dishes. Ian was drying glasses, watching as Mickey carried his paint cans and equipment through the “Employees Only” door. He looked around at the content customers and hung up the glass on the drying rack. 

Ian wasn’t sure what made him slip through the door behind Mickey - maybe he really was too curious for his own good - but as per usual, he couldn’t stop himself. He came up behind Mickey in the hallway where he was stacking paint cans, one on top of another, trying not to startle him this time.

“Done for the day?” Ian asked casually.

Mickey tossed down his rag. “You ask a lot of stupid fuckin’ questions, Gallagher,” he responded, and carried the tray and roller to the plastic laundry sink in the breakroom. He dropped it in and started the hot water.

“Can I see the rest of your sketches?” Ian pressed.

Mickey looked taken aback at this, like he could almost laugh. “The fuck? Why?”

“I’m just curious,” Ian said with a shrug. “Eli said you’re really good. I’ve been working here for almost a year. I have an interest in what goes on our walls.”

Mickey started to scrub at the tray in the sink, not looking at Ian. “They’re rough,” Mickey said. “They don’t look like the finished piece.”

“They looked not half bad to me, from what I saw,” Ian replied.

“I said they were rough, not bad , Jesus Christ,” Mickey griped, turning the water off and turning around. 

Ian couldn’t help but let a half-smile show. “So I can see them, then.”

Mickey snorted and pushed past Ian. “Fuck no.”

For some reason, Ian didn’t feel put out by this. Instead, it only served to encourage him further. In the past, Mickey Milkovich had always been someone to avoid. Ian was fine with knowing as little as possible about him, with staying as far away as he could at all times. He never cared what the Milkovich family was doing and he probably didn’t want to know, anyways. Since he found out about the mural thing, though, Ian couldn’t seem to kill his curiosity. He had always assumed a lot of things about Mickey and where he figured he had ended up, and now that he was seeing all of this evidence to the contrary, he couldn’t help but want to know more. 

Mickey was clearly still Mickey, that much he could see. He was still his usual abrasive, vulgar, intense self, and if that was anything to go by, it would seem that not much had changed. Sure, he looked a bit taller, a bit more filled out, and his hair was well-kept, but there were other subtle differences, too. Ian couldn’t quite put his finger on what, exactly, but he knew it wasn’t the same Mickey that had trapped him in the walk-in freezer of the Kash and Grab. Something was definitely different.

By the time Mickey had finished stacking his materials and took off without another word, Ian started to realize that maybe he had never really known Mickey Milkovich at all.

-:-

“Ian!” 

Ian was sprawled across his bed a couple of nights later, notes about prenatal psychological development scattered around him and his laptop open at his feet. He had written three pages of his research paper that afternoon, eventually giving up and plugging his earbuds into his phone. He was listening to a new playlist that Lip had made for him, a mix of old stuff they both used to listen to and new songs he had picked up from friends at college and work.

“Ian!”

He pulled out one headphone at the faint sound of Fiona calling his name. He could hear her jogging up the stairs and he sat up, pausing his music and shutting the laptop. Fiona appeared in the doorway a moment later, dressed in a white button down and her black work pants. She always looked so professional these days.

“There’s someone here to see you,” Fiona said with a sly smile. She leaned against the doorframe.

Ian frowned, raising an eyebrow in question. 

Fiona lowered her voice. “Mandy,” she half-whispered, still smiling.

Oh, right, Ian thought to himself. Lunch.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ian said. He gathered his papers up and stacked them on top of his laptop at the end of the bed. He stood up and stretched, taking a swig from the glass of water on his bedside table and grabbing his jacket that was slung across his chair. 

Fiona turned and descended back down the stairs, and Ian followed a moment later. He shrugged into his coat and stuck his wallet into his back pocket before stepping out on to the front porch where Mandy waited.

Mandy looked considerably different than when Ian had seen her a few days ago. She was wearing dark jeans, tall black boots and a long-sleeve black shirt paired with an army green coat. Her messenger bag was hanging from her shoulder, and Ian noticed that she had a pair of simple, dangly earrings on. She looked good. Really good, actually, and it made Ian’s heart swell a little with pride. 

“Hey,” Ian said, pulling out his pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his coat. “You want one?”

“I’m good,” Mandy replied. “What were you thinking for lunch?”

Ian lit the tip of his cigarette, watching it glow bright orange as he took a long drag. He exhaled the smoke, and smiled. “Wherever. Waffle Cottage?” He elbowed Mandy, and at the look on her face, let out a laugh. 

She rolled her eyes and turned to head down the stairs. 

“Nah, how about the new burger place on Halsted? I heard it’s decent. Classic,” Ian offered.

Mandy shrugged. “Sure. Is that the one that used to be the car rental place?”

“I think so. Might be crawling with hipsters, but I’m craving a bacon cheeseburger.”

They strode down the walkway side by side, heading out to the street. It was strange, Ian thought, how easily they fell back into their old ways. In high school they had become fast friends because they had understood each other really well. Despite the fact that it had been years since they had really seen one another, it seemed effortless to go back to teasing one another, learning about each other’s lives, and just talking. Ian really did miss having someone to talk to.

When they got to the restaurant they sat down at a booth along the front row of windows. Ian ordered each of them a cheeseburger and seasoned fries with root beers, and sipped on his drink while gazing out the window. He loved being by the windows where he could people-watch while waiting for his meal, and he would make up stories about each person that passed by. By the time their platters were set in front of them, Ian was so hungry he could feel his stomach clenching. 

“So, you’re a waiter too, now,” Mandy said, picking a french fry from the top of her pile.

“Yeah,” Ian replied, immediately taking a huge bite from his cheeseburger and chewing. He swallowed. “I like it.”

“Pretty fancy place, yeah? Seems kind of artsy,” Mandy’s lips curled into a little smile, like she was hiding a laugh.

“Yeah, kind of. A lot of college kids and hipsters. We serve some weird stuff, too, but it’s still good. My bosses are nice.”

“Well that’s good. At least there’s no pervy old men coming in and asking you to lick whip cream off their flapjack stack,” she said with a shrug, like it was nothing. She sipped her drink.

Ian pulled a face. “Gross.” 

“You’re telling me,” Mandy laughed. “But my manager usually threatens to griddle their balls. She’s not the worst.”

Ian shook his head and chuckled. He picked through his french fries, enjoying the feeling of actually being hungry. “So...” he began, trying to decide what to say next. He and Mandy’s conversation had been effortless, but casual, and he wasn’t quite surch how to broach the subject of Mickey. He finally blurted out, “I’ve been seeing your brother at work.”

Mandy looked confused.

Ian continued quickly, “My boss hired him to paint a mural on the side of our building. He just started on Monday.”

Mandy nodded, plucking another fry from her plate and popping it in her mouth. “Oh, yeah, that. I didn’t realize that was the same place. The train piece?”

“Yeah,” Ian said. “I didn’t, uh, know he did that sort of thing.”

Mandy simply shrugged. “He’s always been good at drawing, just too much of a pussy to show anyone. You should know about his skills with a spray paint can,” she looked up through her eyelashes and smirked.

“Ha, ha, I remember,” Ian replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “I guess I never thought he’d be like… actually doing art.”

“No one did,” Mandy acknowledged. “Except me. I always thought he could do it and make clean money if my dad wasn’t in the way of everything. I figured Mickey would end up in prison or dead otherwise… but when my dad died, it was like he got a second chance, or something.”

Ian was quiet as he mulled this over. A second chance . 

“I think we all did, actually… but Mickey especially. He needed to be able to be himself, more than any of us.”

Ian couldn’t help but smile a little as he bit into his burger. He always thought that Mickey was being himself all of these years. “You know,” Ian said, shaking his head and still smiling. “I pulled a bat on him the other day.”

“What?!” Mandy laughed.

“He came in to talk to my boss about the mural and stuff. I had no idea about any of it yet and I thought he was trying to rob us. I panicked, I guess. Reverted back to my Kash and Grab days.”

Mandy was still laughing, and attempting to take another sip of her root beer. “I bet he loved that.”

“Well, he didn’t threaten to knock my teeth in, so it could have been worse.”

“There’s still time,” Mandy reminded him. “He’s going to be there at least a month.”

Ian’s stomach twisted in a knot at this, although he was pleasantly full from his meal. He knew that it would take a while, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about Mickey hanging around The Freight Train for the next month. Something about Mickey being there unsettled Ian, although he wasn’t really sure why. They probably would barely cross paths, anyways, and it wasn’t like they were fourteen - Mickey wasn’t there to terrorize him. He was working , and so was Ian, so there was no reason to even care.

Ian tried to settle back into more casual conversation with Mandy after that, but his mind kept drifting to other places. He eventually flagged down the waitress, paid for their meal, and the two headed back out into the street. As they headed back towards their block, they caught up on one another’s lives. Ian briefly explained the military incident, Mandy talked about her ex boyfriend that she finally left, and both of them discussed their hopes for the future.

By the time they got to the Milkovich’s front walkway, it was as if the past few years had just melted away. Ian almost couldn’t believe that they had waited this long to talk to each other again, and he felt regretful thinking of how much time they had wasted in a stupid, awkward limbo. He felt a pang of guilt when he gave Mandy a quick hug goodbye, but a warmth spread through him as he watched her head back up the stairs.

He walked back home without his music, instead listening to the sounds of the neighbourhood. He could hear the clacking of the trains on the L track in the distance, the shouts of kids playing on the sidewalk, and the barking of guard dogs in yards. He found the walk almost peaceful, and as always, it gave him time to think.

In reality, Ian conceded, it gave him time to calculate exactly how many days, hours, and minutes were in a month.

-:-

The next few days seemed to slip by without notice. Ian hadn’t worked for a couple of evenings - instead cramming for his first psychopathology midterm - and Friday night was upon him before he knew it. He had taken his midterm in the morning, sat through a virtual lecture around lunchtime, and pushed all thoughts of school to the side by mid-afternoon. He was prone to obsessing over tests after he took them, mulling over each question that he was unsure of in his mind over and over. It usually made him sick with worry, and he was glad to have work as a distraction.

Ian had tried to listen to music to reroute his thoughts on his way to work, putting in his headphones as he walked. He was once again grateful for the several blocks he had to hike each day, and he walked quickly, enjoying the feeling of his heart rate picking up as he moved. 

It was another rainy afternoon, the lake-effect clouds having rolled in a few hours prior. They had bunched together and swirled before beginning to drop a depressing drizzle across the city, leaving water to gather on the uneven, holey pavement. Ian dodged the puddles as he marched on, and by the time he reached The Freight Train he had almost broken a sweat. 

Ian yanked his headphones out and paused the music on his phone as he pushed through the front door. He tapped a response to a text from Fiona asking if he would be home for dinner, carefully walking and typing at the same time.

It wasn’t until he heard Mickey’s voice that he looked up.

Johanna was leaning against the corner-booth table, gesturing and explaining something to Mickey that Ian couldn’t quite make out. Mickey was balanced precariously on top of the booth seat, a paintbrush poised in his hand, creating something on the wall in front of him. He couldn’t exactly tell what it was that Mickey was painting, it looked like the beginnings of a bridge, or a valley, and it was filled with bright reds and oranges. The colours contrasted brilliantly against the walls of the restaurant, which had always been a stark white with black accents. 

Ian realized all at once that he was staring. 

Johanna turned around, noticed him and waved him over excitedly. “Ian! Come here!”

Oh, shit.  

“Hey,” Ian said, approaching the pair. He was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he probably looked like a drowned rat, and his coat was dripping water onto the hardwood floor. “How’s it going?”

“Mickey couldn’t work outside in the rain,” Johanna explained, looking up at the wall in front of them. “But I thought we could add some splashes of colour in here. What do you think?”

Ian cleared his throat. “I always thought it was a little plain,” he conceded, and he swore he could almost see Mickey perk up to listen.

“Right?” Johanna grinned. “See, this is why you’re my favourite.”

Ian shrugged. “I’m still waiting for my ‘ Jo’s Favourite ’ bonus on my cheque,” he replied with a smile.

“Hey, you never know. Speaking of, I have to get to the bank before they close and do some deposits,” Johanna scanned the room. “Would you mind giving Mickey a hand if he needs it? I’ve just been passing him stuff, helping with whatever. Nat should be able to handle the front counter for now,” she gestured to where Nat - Natalie, a server who had started around the same time as Ian - was refilling the beer fridge behind the counter. 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Ian nodded.

Johanna patted his shoulder in her usual comforting way, and gave a quick good-bye to everyone before heading out. Ian slipped into the break room and got himself ready for his shift, moving through his usual routine. He filled out his timesheet, grabbed his apron from the rack, and tied it securely around his waist. He slipped his notepad and pen into the front pocket. As he headed back out front, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the oak-framed mirror that hung in the hallway, directly across from the kitchen entrance. He paused, attempted to lay a stray piece of his hair flat, and finally gave up.

 Ian approached Mickey carefully, almost afraid to startle him, and came up on his left to get a better look at the painting. 

“You don’t have to actually help me,” Mickey said suddenly.

“It’s fine,” Ian replied quickly. “I don’t mind.”

Mickey let out one of his characteristic huffs. “Whatever, man. Just don’t distract me.”

Ian opened his mouth to ask what Mickey was painting, but thought better of it. Maybe it was easier for him to work in silence. That was fine, really, but there was just so much that Ian wanted to know. He had never expected Mickey to be talented at anything besides violent crime, and he just kept wanting to dig deeper, to know more. Instead, he kept quiet, and he figured that was the end of the conversation, until Mickey suddenly spoke up again.

“You hanging out with my sister again?” he dipped his brush back in the orange paint, and made another bold stroke across the wall. 

“Um, sort of,” Ian pulled at a loose string on his apron where the ties had begun to fray. “We just had lunch.”

“Hm,” Mickey grunted, swiping his brush back and forth. “You tryna’ fuck her?”

Ian nearly choked on his own tongue. “Jesus, no ,” he said immediately, and at Mickey’s pointed look, he added, “It’s not like that. She’s just a friend. That’s all she ever was.”

“No guy is just a friend. Not with Mandy.”

Ian gave a shrug, trying not to feel offended on Mand’ys behalf. “I am.”

Mickey turned, steadying himself on his perch and looking Ian up and down. His gaze was searching, and it was almost suspicious in a way that made the hair on Ian’s neck stand up on end. “Right,” Mickey said finally. 

Ian only paused for a moment to consider his next words. He knew it would probably be a mistake. In the past, he would’ve never admitted this to just anyone, especially Mickey Milkovich. Ian had changed, though, since the military incident, and he found that he just didn’t give much of a shit anymore. Even if it was dangerous, he had grown sick of living in a weird half lie, half truth. In high school, it was a matter of survival. Now… well, now his own brain was trying to kill him every other day, so what was the use? Ian had been open with everyone when he came home. He told Eli and Johanna before he even started at The Freight Train, most of his coworkers knew, and in that moment, he blurted it out.

“I’m gay, actually,” Ian told Mickey plainly. 

He wasn’t sure what kind of response he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one he got. 

Mickey climbed down off the back of the booth and put his brush into a bucket of water and suds. “Okay,” he said, his face expressionless.

Ian scratched at the back of his neck, fighting off nerves. “So I’m not trying to fuck Mandy.”

“Yeah, I figured that, dumbass,” Mickey rolled his eyes.

“So you don’t have to worry,” Ian added.

Mickey scoffed. “I wasn’t worried about her. She has a fuckin’ Ruger next to the lipgloss in her purse,” he popped open a can of sunflower yellow paint. “I was worried about you. Might give you the clap.”

Ian pulled a face in disgust. “She doesn’t have the clap.”

“How do you know? You never fucked her.” Mickey shrugged.

“Whatever,” Ian shook his head. “Can I actually help you with something? I don’t mind doing nothing, but I think my boss might care.”

Mickey was carefully pouring the yellow paint into a tray, and he was quiet as he thought it over. “I guess you can mix some paint. Put brown and orange in the other tray, equal parts. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Okay,” Ian grabbed the two cans and sat down in the booth, setting the tray out in front of him. He carefully poured each colour out onto the plastic, taking care not to spill a drop. When the two puddles of paint looked somewhat similarly sized, he grabbed the wooden stick from the pile and began to stir, the colours swirling together and creating a warm sandstone shade.

Mickey had climbed back up onto the bench seat, and he was carefully dipping his brush in the yellow and red. He was steady and concentrated in a way that seemed very un-Mickey. Ian always remembered him as brash, intense, exploding like a fault bomb everywhere he went. It was strange to watch him in this new element.

Ian took a breath, then asked, “What are you painting in here?”

He half expected Mickey to tell him to fuck off, or to mind his own business, but instead he dragged his brush across the wall and answered, “A bridge. One of those old school railroad bridges.”

“Oh,” Ian nodded. “To match the train outside?”

“I guess,” Mickey replied. “I don’t know. I try not to like… plan too much, or whatever.”

“Yeah…” Ian was still stirring, but his gaze wandered to the picture window facing the street. A teenage couple was walking by, hand in hand, one sipping on a to-go coffee, and Ian’s eyes followed them until they were out of sight. 

Ian found he could relate somehow. He tried not to plan too much, either. Based on past experience, he had found that whenever he took his plan too far into the future, it would simply blow up in his face, disintegrating into ash around him. Since his diagnosis, he could never be sure what he would be like in a year, or six months, or even next week. Even on his medication, he felt like he could never fully trust his future self to keep it together. Sure, he was going to school, and that had been a pretty big commitment, but he didn’t really know what else to do. It was passing the time, anyways, and if he did have to drop out, he could always go back.

Eventually when the after work crowds began to gather, Ian left Mickey to work while he started to serve tables. The shift was going by relatively quickly - as most Friday nights did - and Ian was pulling in a decent amount of tips. He moved between serving tables and helping relieve Nat at the bar, which kept him hustling, but his eyes would wander towards where Mickey was working. 

By seven o’clock, Mickey had finished the sunset background and moved into detailing the bridge itself. His sleeves were shoved up his arms, showing his scattered array of black and blue tattoos, and his hair had become a tousled mess on top of his head. Every once and a while he would stop and consider his work while gnawing on the end of the small paintbrush, looking frustrated.

The thing was, Ian wasn’t blind . 

Sure, Mickey was a total prick. He was harsh, overwhelming, a little bit terrifying, and probably still a violent offender, even if he was an artist now. Still, Ian couldn’t deny that he wasn’t a bad looking guy. He was exactly Ian’s type - tattoos, earrings, a little rough around the edges. He was lean in the right spots and soft in others, and whenever he reached up over his head to steady himself his shirt would ride up just enough to make Ian’s stomach flip. So Ian worked his way through his shift, and he enjoyed the view at the same time, careful to not let himself get caught staring.

As the food orders slowed down and drinks began to pick up, Mickey started to pack up his supplies. He hopped down from the booth bench and stretched his arms out.

Ian delivered a tray of craft IPA’s to a table of college guys in band t-shirts a few tables away, and stopped on his way back past. 

“Done for the night?” he asked, tucking the plastic tray under his arm.

“Yeah,” Mickey replied, placing lids on half-empty cans of paint.

“Let me help you,” Ian offered. He picked up a stack of trays and the bucket of murky water that sat on the floor by his feet.

Mickey gave him a strange look, but he didn’t protest, so the pair cleaned up in silence. Ian snuck glances between Mickey and the painting on the wall, which was half finished. It really was a beautiful painting. There was a wide river canyon with sharp rock ledges and mountains looming in the background. In the very back was a sunset, full of brilliant yellows, oranges, and pinks. In the foreground was a tall, looming railroad bridge that ran through the canyon, held up by a criss cross of steel beams. The river itself had yet to be filled in, and the mountains and bridge looked like they were waiting to be detailed. It definitely stood out against the plain wall. It gave it life.

Ian had a nervous lump in his throat as they carried supplies to the back hallway, but still he spoke up. “It looks really good, by the way.” 

Something came across Mickey’s face - it was almost as if his mouth was going to twist into a smile, but thought better of it - but his eyes still seemed to shine. “Yeah, thanks,” he grunted. He dumped the trays in the laundry sink and started the water.

“No problem.”

The two worked in silence as they scrubbed his trays clean, washed and treated the brushes, and put all the supplies back in an orderly stack in the hallway. When they finished, Ian pushed his head through the door to the dining hall, which was still mostly made of college kids drinking overpriced beer and foreign cocktails. 

“Nat!” he called out to his coworker at the counter. “I’m taking my 15.”

She gave him a thumbs up and Ian turned back around to face Mickey, who seemed to be taking a mental inventory of his paint, his jaw working back and forth.

Ian grabbed his coat from the coat rack in the break room and pulled out a pack of cigarettes before hanging it back up. He held them up for the other man to see. “I’m going for a smoke. You can join, if you want.”

Mickey looked confused, for a moment, and then he began to consider the offer. Finally, he slipped behind Ian and grabbed his dark jacket from the bottom peg on the rack. He didn’t speak a word, but followed Ian down the winding hall to the emergency door, which opened out into the back exit. 

Ian grabbed the wooden wedge from beside the back steps and jammed it in the door, propping it open. It was pitch black out, and windy, but the rain had finally tapered off into a hazy mist, blanketing the city in a thick fog. The parking lot was barely illuminated by two dim, flickering street lights, which buzzed obnoxiously, and there were only a couple of cars left in their lot. Ian sat down on the bottom step. Mickey followed, dropping down beside him but keeping as far to his own side as he could, maintaining a healthy, safe distance.

Ian slid a smoke out of the package and ducked down to light it out of the breeze. He put the cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag, feeling the relief flow through him as the pounding of his headache instantly began to dull. Jesus, he should quit.

He turned to Mickey. “You want one?”

“Sure, whatever,” Mickey shrugged. Ian held the pack to him in offering, and Mickey plucked one, placing it between his lips. He held his hand out for the lighter, but Ian reached up and lit it for him, his expert hands cupping around it to block the wind.  

Mickey frowned around the smoke in his mouth. He looked startled, but he didn’t completely pull away, instead taking a quick pull once the flame caught. “Uh, thanks,” he muttered.

“No problem,” Ian took a drag from his own, looking straight ahead. 

There was a beat of silence. Mickey ashed his cigarette. “How long you been around here for?”

Ian was surprised to hear him make small talk. He let out a puff. “About a year. I started right after I got into school.”

“You’re in school?” Mickey didn’t even try to hide his surprise, seeming just as impressed as Mandy had.

“Yeah. Online for now. I just started my second year.” Ian felt that same surge of nerves in his stomach that came whenever he talked about college out loud, and he tried to suppress it down with another haul off of his cigarette. 

Mickey was quiet again, but there was something beneath the surface, like he was holding something back. “Mandy said I shoulda gone to art school,” he eventually told Ian. “I think that shit’s a waste of fucking time.”

Ian wondered vaguely if he should feel offended by this, but he gave a shrug instead. “I don’t know. It might be. It keeps me busy, though.”

“What do you like… want to do, or whatever?” Mickey gestured with his hand, unsure. Apparently, this civil conversation was just as foreign to him as it was to Ian.

Ian’s gaze fell to his feet. This was treading in dangerous territory. His future was always so uncertain, so vague, like a blurry outline on the horizon that he could only start to make out as he grew closer and closer. He had picked his psychology major on a whim, mostly because it sounded the least boring out of all of them, but partly because he thought it might help him better understand his own fucked up head. Ian never really had much of a plan for what he wanted to do with it after. He knew that he wanted to help people - people like him - but he didn’t really know how. The conversation had turned a little too personal, and Ian wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’m not really sure,” Ian admitted. “Something to do with mental illness, I think.”

Mickey pulled a face. “Like a shrink? For nutjobs? Fuck that.”

Ian felt his face heat up, the redness spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. Nutjobs, right. 

He had a sudden, but luckily fleeting urge to punch Mickey in the face, which was his usual reaction to people talking shit about his illness. Instead, he opened and closed his fist in his lap, and waited for the reactionary wave of anger to pass. He had gotten good at that. “Not a shrink,” Ian said stiffly. “But something. There’s a lot of people who need help .”

Mickey frowned a little, but nodded. “Huh.” 

“What about you?” Ian took another short drag. “Mandy said you started this painting stuff after…” he trailed off. He had probably gone a little too far. He had no idea where Mickey stood on the whole dead father situation, but regardless it probably wasn’t something he wanted to discuss with many people - especially not Ian.

“After my dad got cancer up in his ass and finally keeled over?” Mickey looked over at Ian, his face unreadable.

“I mean, I guess-,” 

“Yeah, I started painting after that. Got good at it. I guess that’s what I’ll do for now.”

Ian dropped his cigarette on the wet ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his sneaker. “I’m uh, sorry, by the way…”

“Sorry about my dad?” Mickey snorted in disbelief. “Fuck him. I thought it would’ve at least been a little more interesting. Shot up in the street, tire iron to the back of the skull, something, y’know? I know for a fact at least six people verbally promised to rip his eyeballs directly out of his head and he died in a fuckin’ hospice.”

“Maybe the universe thought that slow and painful was a better fit?” Ian offered. 

Mickey actually smiled at this, a real smile, and Ian couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride. Not only was Mickey Milkovich not knocking his teeth in, but he was having a decent conversation with him, and he was grinning at something he had said. That had to be a victory.

Mickey tossed the butt of his cigarette aside. “I gotta get going.”

“Yeah, I should get back to work,” Ian nodded, and stood up, dusting off his apron to make sure none of the ashes had clung to him in the damp evening air. 

He kicked the wedge out of the door, and the two headed back into the restaurant. Ian went back out to the front counter and began restocking the cooler, while Mickey gathered up anything he wanted to take home and headed for the front entrance without even so much as a look over his shoulder once again.

The rest of the shift remained busy, with a few late night diners wandering in, and the bar picking up closer to 9 o’clock. Ian worked steadily. He ran drinks to tables, served at the bartop, and made sure to compliment all of his best tippers. Although he didn’t have a lot of down time, when he got a moment to pause, he couldn’t help but let himself take in the work of art across the room time and time again.

It really was a damn good painting.

-:-

Ian could hear his phone ringing. He briefly considered throwing it out of his window, as he was half asleep, buried in his blankets with his TV blaring some crappy reality show about building Halloween costumes when it started to chime. He could feel it buzzing underneath his pillow, directly beneath his ear. He elected to ignore it and felt relieved when it finally stopped ringing, only for it to start up again a few seconds later, even more annoying than the time before. 

“Fuck,” Ian grumbled. He shoved his hand underneath the pillow, groaning to himself and squinting at the phone screen as he pulled it out. MANDY , the screen read.

Ian tapped the green button to answer, simultaneously grabbing for the remote on his nightstand to mute his TV. 

“Hello?” he said, still groggy with sleep. 

Mandy’s voice on the other end was way too high-spirited for that early in the morning. “Hey. Did I wake you up? Nevermind, I don’t care. Want to hang out? Or are you busy with school and shit?”

Ian rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. It was Saturday, right? What time even was it?

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, shaking his head as he got his bearings. It was light out, definitely mid morning. The memory of his shift from the night before came rushing back. “No, I’m not busy. I gotta work at 3, but that’s about it.”

“Awesome. You’re still on North Wallace, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian said. “I’m still there.”

“Cool, be there in half an hour,” Mandy told him cheerfully, and with that, the call disconnected.

Ian sat up, pushing the tangled comforter down and looking around his room. Morning sunshine cascaded through the window, bathing his bed in a warm orange glow. It felt nice, actually. He tapped on his phone again, seeing that the time read 9:19 AM. So it wasn't too late, after all. Ian did want to hang out with Mandy, but he had agreed so quickly without even thinking, and he realized suddenly that he had to get his ass in gear if she was going to be there in half an hour.

He kicked the blankets off, threw his legs over the side of his bed, and stood up, hearing his shoulders and back crack as he did so. Christ, he needed to get a bigger bed soon. The cramped twin bed was not built for a man in his 20’s, and his body protested when he rose from it in the morning. He dreamed of a sprawling king-sized bed in his own room, his own apartment, but when he thought too hard about it a lump formed in his throat. 

That was too far in the future.

Ian grabbed his semi-damp towel from the back of his door, and took a quick shower to wash away the smell of fried food, beer, and cigarettes from his shift the night before. He got dressed quickly. He threw on a dark red hoodie and plain blue jeans, attempted to straighten out the wisp in his hair, and gave himself a quick spray of his favourite cologne before heading downstairs. 

The house was oddly quiet for a Saturday. Debbie sat at the kitchen table, her attention focused on her phone. Liam ate his peanut butter and toast beside her. Fiona must have already taken off to the diner, leaving a strange calm behind her, and the kitchen was clean, orderly. It was weird to see the house this way after so many years of chaos, but it was nice to have mornings like this in his life now. Ian had had all the chaos he could handle for one lifetime, anyways.

Ian grabbed the coffee pot and poured himself a half-cup. “I’m meeting up with Mandy in a bit, are you good with Liam, Debs?”

“Yeah,” Debbie replied, only sort of paying attention.

“You sure?”

Debbie looked up from her phone, rolling her eyes in her extremely teenage way. “Yes, I’m fine,” she replied tersely.

“Alright, alright,” Ian smiled behind his coffee cup. The attitude got worse every day.

Ian grabbed somebody’s leftover half of a bagel off the counter and munched on it between sips of coffee, enjoying the feeling of the caffeine flowing through his system. The slight pounding in his head that was undoubtedly caused by lack of sleep slowly began to subside, and the knot in his abdomen from only having a cigarette for dinner the night before dissipated. Although his breakfast wasn’t exactly nutritious, it felt good to have some actual food in his stomach. 

He wasn’t quite satisfied, though, and he wolfed down a partially bruised banana when he heard Mandy knock on the door. He took off to answer it, waving to Liam as he went.

“See ya, Debs,” Ian called over his shoulder, doing his ceremonial pat down on himself to make sure his wallet, house key, smokes, and lighter were right where they should be.

When he opened the door, Mandy was leaning against the railing, scrolling through something on her phone. She was dressed in a grey long sleeve with a black wool scarf, paired with a black denim skirt and boots. Her hair was down this time.

“Hey,” Mandy said, shoving her phone in her dark leather purse. Balanced on the railing were two brown coffee cups, and she took them, handing one out to Ian. “Let’s walk.”

“Ok,” Ian took a sip of the coffee, swallowed, and raised an eyebrow. “Cinnamon?”

“I know guys pretend they only like black coffee,” Mandy answered, bouncing down the steps. “Drink up.”

Ian took another sip, and he had to admit, it wasn’t bad. Mandy was kind of right, too. He had always drunk his coffee black growing up - mostly due to the fact that they never had creamer in the fridge - but at that point it had just become a habit. He had learned how to make lattes, macchiatos, and every other bougie drink at work, but the thought of trying to order one by himself made him cringe inwardly.

“So what are we doing?” Ian asked.

Mandy shrugged, waiting at the end of the walkway for Ian to catch up to her. “I don’t know. I thought we could just go for a walk. It’s nice out.”

Ian looked up to the sky, squinting against the sun. The storm had once again cleared, leaving a blue sky striped with wispy clouds, and the air felt cleaner than usual. The smell of rain from the night before still clung to everything and leaves gathered in wet clumps next to the storm drains. There wasn’t a lot of wind, but the air was just the right temperature for fall - cool, but without the uncomfortable chill that got down into your bones. They strolled down the sidewalk side by side, and for a moment you could almost forget you were in the South Side. It was… pleasant.

“I think I want to get a new job,” Mandy blurted out. She picked at the lid on her coffee.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah… I don’t know what, yet. But I’ve been saving for a couple of years now. I kind of thought about going to cosmetology school,” Mandy’s voice was unusually soft.

Ian nodded slowly, picturing it. Mandy had always been good with that kind of thing - makeup, hair, all of it. While some of her looks had been a bit intense for Ian’s taste, she had never been afraid to try something new. She was always the first one to experiment with a new style before it was even cool, and she didn’t give a shit what anyone said about it. He remembered her styling Debbie’s hair and giving her her first real makeover, and how excited Debbie had been, and how it hadn’t actually looked bad, just… mature. 

“That’s really cool,” Ian said, taking a long swig of his coffee. “You’d be great at it.”

“You think?” Mandy’s eyes lit up, and she tried to hold back the hopefulness in her voice. “I mean, you think people would like, actually pay me for it?”

Ian gave a shrug and grinned. “Yeah, why not?”

Mandy’s smile grew wider. “Would you be my dummy?” she asked excitedly.

“Uh...” Ian let out a breath, unsure of what to say.

“Just for your hair, dipshit,” Mandy hit him on the shoulder. “I need to start building a portfolio to apply, and your hair is getting kind of…” she trailed off.

Ian lifted a hand to his head, feeling where it had grown out on top. He had been meaning to get a haircut for a few weeks now, but it had never worked with his schedule at The Freight Train, so he hadn’t gotten around to it.

“Okay, sure,” he replied.

“Sweet,” Mandy said, and Ian could see that she was still smiling as she took another drink. 

He had made the idea feel real for her, he could tell. It was likely that she hadn’t really told anyone else. Even if she had, what would they have said? It’s not like her brothers would even care, let alone encourage her, and she probably had been keeping this a secret for months now. When Ian was thinking about college, he had done the same, and he was lucky enough to actually have a somewhat supportive group of people to tell. Still, he had held it in for almost a month, looking up refurbished laptops online and clinging to the small bit of hope the idea gave him. Finally, when he decided where he was going to apply, he told Lip. Then, a couple of days later, he told Fiona. Then Debbie, Carl, and Kev and V. All of them had cheered him on and told him he’d do great, and although it scared him shitless, it had also felt awesome at the time. Mandy deserved to have that, too. 

Suddenly, Ian realized that Mandy had asked him something and that she was looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, what?”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “I said, how’s Mickey’s painting coming along?”

“Oh,” Ian blinked, feeling his face grow red. “Right. It’s good, I haven’t really seen it since I wasn’t at work much this week and it was raining last night,” he explained.

“Hm,” Mandy’s smile turned wry, like it did whenever she had an idea. “Let’s go look at it, then.”

Ian had been taking a drink and sputtered, mid-sip. “What?”

“Sure, why not? He never tells me what he’s doing. I like his work, it’s actually pretty cool.”

Ian thought about it. He was curious to see what progress Mickey had made that week. Not to mention he was craving a chocolate croissant from the brunch menu at work, and he could show Mandy what he did now, which made him feel oddly proud. 

“Alright, let’s go.”

Ian led her the few blocks towards The Freight Train. They talked about his classes and his homework, mostly, which Mandy seemed strangely interested in. Most of his siblings had an idea of what he was studying, but they didn’t really ask many questions, with the exception of Lip’s odd bout of curiosity. It felt good to actually explain the things he was learning. It made him feel more confident, like he actually knew what he was talking about, and Mandy seemed to genuinely care about what he was saying - she wasn’t just asking out of obligation. That was something he had always liked about her.

As they crossed the street on to The Freight Train’s block, Ian felt his stomach clench nervously. He wasn’t really sure why, he was proud of his job and he was excited to show Mandy. Eli, Johanna, or whoever was on shift were always happy to see him, even if he wasn’t working. Still, he couldn’t help but feel like maybe it wasn’t the best idea. The thought of the chocolate croissant he had been craving started to make him feel nauseous instead. 

Mandy stopped on the sidewalk when they came up to the front window. The specials were written with window markers in the front window, and Ian recognized Johanna’s looping, attractive handwriting. The sign above the door was white with big, bold black writing, designed to look like steel girders connected together to form the letters: “THE FREIGHT TRAIN.” 

Mandy looked up, reading the sign, and nodded in appreciation. “Nice.” 

Ian could see Natalie moving between tables, clearing off breakfast dishes and topping off customer’s coffees in the bright coloured mugs that Ian knew were decorated with quotes from poems.

“Where’s this mural?” Mandy turned and stuck her hands on her hips, determined.

“Oh, around the side,” Ian pointed to the alleyway that ran between the building and it’s neighbour. 

Mandy suddenly grabbed him by the hand and dragged him towards the alley. Ian stumbled along behind her, trying to tell her to hold on a second, but as always, Mandy was on a mission. They came around the corner, and Ian immediately noticed that the mural had progressed significantly from the blank canvas that he had seen earlier that week. The black base had been accentuated with huge, neon geometric shapes. Bright pinks, purples, and yellows stood out against the background, and the general shape of the train had begun to take form, exploding out from the colour. It was intense - in a good way - and Ian drew in a breath.

“The fuck you doing here?” 

Mickey’s jarring question drew Ian’s attention away from the mural, and he felt his stomach jump. For some reason, he hadn’t expected that Mickey would be there on a Saturday, which was stupid. He probably had to make use of every decent day he could to get it done before it got too cold. For a moment, Ian opened his mouth to respond, but realized quickly that he was talking to Mandy.

“I came to see what you’re working on, since you won’t show me shit,” Mandy said, shoving her hands in her coat pockets. 

Mickey clenched his jaw, looking as annoyed as ever. “Well you’ve seen it. Fuck off.”

“Oh relax, Jesus,” Mandy shot back. She walked towards him, and Ian shifted his weight from side to side, unsure. “I like it.”

Mickey said nothing. Hebent down to pick up a different can of spray paint. He gave it a shake - probably harder than necessary - and aimed it at the wall at eye-level. 

“It’s kind of like the one you did in Burbank,” Mandy commented, her gaze drifting upwards. “With the boxcars?”

“You went and looked at that?” Mickey asked irritably. 

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d just show me pictures.”

“Pictures are shitty, doesn’t look the same. Quit followin’ me.”

“Bite me, it’s a free country. Are you gonna do any lettering for this one?” Mandy leaned against the wall on the other side of the alley. 

Mickey seemed to give in at this point, but he was sneaking sideways glances at Ian, seemingly annoyed by his presence. “Don’t think so,” he replied.

There was a beat of silence while Mickey continued to spray, pausing in between strokes to observe his work. Ian thought for a moment that he and Mandy had completely been blocked out, and was about to offer to take her inside for a coffee when Mickey spoke up again.

“You draggin’ Gallagher around like a lost puppy now, or what?” he cleared his throat, giving another sideways glance at the pair, and quickly looked away.

“So what if I am?” Mandy smiled in a strange, knowing way that made Ian a little anxious. “Nothing wrong with rekindling with an ex,” she wandered over and threw her arm around Ian’s shoulder, and yanked him closer to her.

Mickey let out a pfft sound. He raised his eyebrows. “Ex, my ass.”

Ian wasn’t sure why this made his heart start to pound. He could hear it in his ears. Mandy had known for years that Ian was gay, and Ian had blurted it out in front of Mickey the night before. This wasn’t news to anyone, but for some reason hearing them both dance around it made him both relieved and apprehensive at the same time. 

“We dated in high school,” Mandy reminded him, but Ian could tell she was joking.

“Yeah,” Ian interjected. “I was the best boyfriend she ever had.”

Mickey pointed at Mandy with the spray paint can. “You’re a shitty beard,” he said, and then pointed at Ian. “And you’re a shitty… actually, I don’t even know what the fuck you were.”

“He kept the creeps and pervs off my back,” Mandy informed him. She leaned into Ian, and the smell of orange shampoo and cigarettes was strangely comfortable and familiar. 

Mickey gave a doubtful frown. “How’d that work out?”

“Fine,” Mandy’s tone was prickly, but a slow smile spread across her lips. “Until I got horny.”

Mickey let out a gag, looking repulsed as he turned away. He grabbed a dried up rag from his back pocket and whipped it at her. “You’re fuckin’ disgusting,” he complained.

“No worse than what I have to put up with,” Mandy wrinkled her nose.

“Oh?” Ian raised his eyebrows, scared to get between the two, but unable to help himself from jumping into the conversation.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey shook his head, turning back to his work. “Go enjoy your date, Gay -dy and the Tramp.”

Mandy rolled her eyes again and pushed on Ian’s shoulder, turning him around. “Alright, alright. We’ll go.”

The pair walked back around the corner to the front of the Freight Train. Ian opened the door for her in a gentlemanly manner, and followed behind her into the restaurant.

“Well, here it is. My place of employment,” he held his arms out, presenting the room to her, trying not to look too sheepish.

Mandy’s eyes followed the movement in the room, running along the counter, through the tables, and landing on the almost finished painting above the corner booth. A sign had been affixed to the wall beside it that stated “WET PAINT - DO NOT TOUCH. THANK-YOU.”

“Mickey do that one, too?” Mandy nodded to the bright splash, full of oranges and pinks.

“Yeah,” Ian said. “He couldn’t work outside when it was raining. Jo thought that our dining room could use a little colour.”

Ian wandered over towards the bartop, shrugging his coat off and dropping it down on top of one of the leather stools. He sat down on top of it and Mandy climbed up on the stool beside him and swung her purse into her lap. Nat had her back turned to them, and she was expertly crafting a cappuccino. 

“I’ll be with you in a second,” she said without looking over her shoulder, deftly swirling a design into the froth on top of the drink.

“It’s fine,” Ian replied with a smile.

Nat turned around. Her eyebrows furrowed together. “What are you doing here?” Nat planted a hand on her hip. She was a tall woman, and it was only exaggerated when she wore her signature chunky black boots. The sides of her head were shaved, and her dark hair was always gelled into little spikes on top, kept neat and tidy. She always wore dramatic lashes and dark maroon lipstick, which made her bright green eyes jump out at you. Ian lost count of how many piercings she had - eyebrow in two places, lip, nose, septum, the works, and normally, Ian would think it looked overdone, but somehow it never did with Nat. 

“I’m here to brighten your shift!” Ian grinned, leaning on the counter.

Nat pulled a face, but there was a smile underneath. “Shut up. Who’s your friend?”

Ian opened his mouth to introduce her, but was interrupted.

“Mandy,” Mandy nodded.

Nat picked up the cappuccino that was balanced delicately on a saucer. “Well, Mandy, I’ll be right with you. Not you though,” she gave Ian a playful shove with her free hand and headed off to drop the drink off at a table by the window. 

“What are you getting?” Ian turned to Mandy, who was reading the menu that hung from the ceiling behind the counter, above the window into the kitchen.

“Not sure,” she paused, her eyes trailing across the menu board.“ A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved,” s he was reading the quote at the bottom of the board, which Jo changed out every weekend. “Vonnegut?”

“I don’t know,” Ian admitted. “Jo puts those there. Usually they’re from books, sometimes from movies. Artsy shit, like you said.”

Mandy gave a weak half-smile, and her gaze fell back down to the counter. She was quiet for a moment, but eventually mumbled, “Lip liked that Vonnegut guy. I tried to read a bunch of it, but most of it didn’t make sense to me.”

Although she glossed over it, attempting to regain her composure afterwards with ease, Ian could tell that it stung. He had never really known the full extent of what went on between her and his brother, but with all of the Karen stuff, he knew it had been bad. Like, really bad. It had been years, and he could tell that just saying his name had made her heart squeeze painfully. Lip could have that effect on people. He wanted to reach out and give her a hug, but he also knew that it wouldn’t do any good, that she was trying to keep moving, to not stay stuck thinking about it.

When Nat came back around the corner, Ian called out to her. “Two chocolate croissants, please. Can I get a coffee, too?” He turned to Mandy and looked at her. “Want anything to drink?”

“Uh,” Mandy glanced over at the Espresso machine. “Can I get one of those cappuccinos with the designs? Whatever you were doing earlier.”

Nat beamed at her. “That’s my speciality.”

“It’s true,” Ian added, leaning in. “She’s the Picasso of foam art.”

“Ew, I hate Picasso,” Nat replied, opening up the dessert display case. “Let me be someone good.”

“Seconded. Picasso’s overrated,” Mickey’s voice suddenly came from behind them. He sauntered towards the counter, pulling out a stool on the other side of Ian. 

Ian felt his stomach swoop. He wondered if it was residual childhood nerves - he hadn’t been this close to him before, except for the time Mickey almost broke his nose in middle school - or if it was because Mickey looked surprisingly good in torn jeans and a black t-shirt covered in pink paint splatters. Either way, they were sitting side by side, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. 

Nat set Ian’s coffee in front of him, and dropped each croissant on a plate. Ian slid one towards Mandy, and she nodded in thanks. There was a loud hiss from the espresso machine, and Nat turned around, working on Mandy’s drink. She was so much faster at that crap than Ian was.

“Coffee for me too. You got Bailey’s?” Mickey said.

Ian turned to Mickey, feeling brave. “So what artist should she be?”

“Huh?”

“Nat. You said Picasso’s overrated. What artist should she be, then?”

Mickey rubbed at his face tiredly. “Fuck, I don’t know. Let her be someone cool. Banksy, or something.”

Ian looked at him, chewing on a bite of his croissant thoughtfully. “Nah. Cop out. You’re just saying that because you do street art.”

“Not the same,” Mickey countered, grabbing his coffee as soon as Nat set it in front of him. “I don’t give a single shit about politics.”

“And I don’t give a shit what artist she is, I just want to enjoy my cappuccino in peace,” Mandy chimed in, sending a glare down the line to her brother.

“Free country!” Mickey called back with a smirk, and took a sip from his mug. 

Ian looked away and grinned down at his own coffee, the realization hitting him that he had never really seen Mickey smile like that before. It was a wide and toothy grin. 

Mickey Milkovich had a nice smile .

Ian wanted to shove the thought back out of his brain as quickly as it had entered. He had come to terms with the fact that Mickey was attractive already, but thinking about the way his lips curled up softly, about how it travelled to his eyes and made the edges crinkle… that was different. That was entering a whole new territory that Ian didn’t go to with anyone - especially Mickey Milkovich. 

Again, he wasn’t stupid, nor was he blind. He was a gay twenty-something-year-old in his physical prime, and he could certainly acknowledge when another man was good looking. There was no point in trying to deny someone’s sex appeal. Ian had spent half of his adolescent life trying to do that, and had realized that it was a stupid, fruitless pursuit. He had no problem calling him hot, and had no problem letting his fantasies consist of brawny arms, stocky bodies, flexing neck muscles and bobbing Adam’s apples. That, however, was his line. 

Everything was about balance.

He shook his head, trying to dissipate the notion from his brain, and only half hearing Mandy and Mickey bickering in the background. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he heard Mandy gripe.

“Takes one to know one, bitch,” Mickey leaned forward. The argument was volleying back and forth around Ian, with him stuck directly in the middle.

Ian sighed. “Would you two like me to move?”

Mickey shrugged, and then reached over and ripped the end off of Ian’s croissant as if it was the most natural thing in the world to him. He took a long chug from his coffee. “I’m getting back to work in a minute anyways, Mandy can chill the fuck out.”

Mandy rolled her eyes at her brother. He gave a wave and hopped down off his stool, tearing another piece from Ian’s pastry as he went.

“See ya,” Mickey called over his shoulder, his mouth full.

Mandy shook her head, and nudged at Ian’s plate. “He owes you at least half a croissant. I hate when he does that. It used to drive me nuts when we were little.”

“I don’t mind,” Ian said nonchalantly, and he found that he really didn’t. Normally, it would probably piss him off, too, but he found himself smiling as he pictured a younger version of Mickey, a version he barely remembered, snatching pieces of Mandy’s cookies. He had always hated when his siblings, or even worse, Frank, would grab from his plate, but it had felt more friendly with Mickey. Like they were… pals, or something. God, how stupid.

Still, Ian smiled to himself again. It was better than a broken nose. 

-:-

Monday was not a good day. 

Really, it had all started on Sunday night, and snowballed into a complete shitstorm from there. Ian had gotten a call from Eli around 9:30 PM on Sunday. Griff, another college-aged new hire, had just broken his foot and wasn’t coming in on Monday morning. Griff was doing night school, so his shifts were almost completely opposite to Ian’s, but Ian had heard from the other servers that he had actually been doing decently well, and Eli had practically begged Ian to take the shift. Even though it would completely screw up his weekly schedule, Ian gave in. He needed the money. He spent the rest of the night re-organizing his studying routine for the next day and tried his best to go to bed with a positive attitude.

Then, Monday happened.

His bad day started as most tend to: Ian slept in. His phone had died through the night, and so he woke up with less than half an hour to get ready and sprint the several blocks to work. It was a surprisingly warm morning, too, and by the time he got to The Freight Train he was doused in his own sweat, practically negating the lightning fast shower he had taken before he left the house.

The Monday morning shift was steady, but not overwhelming, and for a moment he thought maybe things would turn around. He was making decent tips, and he had gotten a leftover cinnamon bun to take on his break.

He was contently chewing on said cinnamon bun when he sat down at the break room table and plugged his phone in. After a minute, it came back to life, his lock screen photo of him, Liam, and Carl lighting up the screen. A couple of notifications came through from Facebook, nothing important, until he noticed the email.

His grade was posted for the September statistics midterm.

Ian felt his palms grow sweaty as he tapped the notification to open the email. His stomach twisted nervously and the app loaded, a little blue wheel spinning in the middle of the screen. 

57%.  

Fuck. Fucking math.

He fought back the urge to whip his phone across the room, and instead let it fall onto the table with a clatter. He dropped the rest of his cinnamon bun beside it. He wasn’t even hungry anymore.

Ian had never been any good at math, and Lip had basically dragged him through algebra and calculus all through high school. Lip had been busy, though. He had gotten a new research opportunity that fall, and Ian didn’t want to bug him, even though he knew that his brother would always help him if he asked. Ian had been determined to get through this statistics class on his own, despite the fact that he could feel his eyes glaze over every time he opened the textbook. It was clear that he was tanking. He knew that the midterm had been bad, but a 57 ? He didn’t think it was that bad. 

He spent the rest of the shift trying to keep his mood from showing. It was chewing at him, and he could tell that his smile was fake and his words to customers fell flat. He needed to keep his grades up to keep his scholarship, and beyond that, Ian just hated the feeling of failing at something. He had failed at so many things, even when he felt like he was trying his best, and it made him want to yell. Or throw something. 

Shortly after 2:30, Ian was less than half an hour away from the end of his shift, when things went from bad to worse . 

He was carrying a tray of drinks to one of the back booths near the side door, his mind still racing. He vaguely heard someone call out behind him, but it was too late, and his foot hit a wet spot on the floor, sending him toppling backwards. The tray flipped over forcefully and by the time he hit the ground he was drenched in ice cold craft beer and Coke, the glasses shattering on the floor around him. 

Ian laid flat on his back. He stared up at the geometric chandelier that hung from the ceiling, suspended in a moment of complete disbelief. You have got to be fucking kidding me, he thought, and finally he sat up.

Half of the restaurant was staring at him in shock. A hush had fallen over the crowd, and Grace came rushing over immediately, a mop in one hand. 

“I’m so sorry, Ian,” she reached out to help him up, and he took her hand to stand up. “I tried to tell you that there was water on the floor, but I don’t think you heard me…”

Eli quickly appeared behind her next, with a broom and dustpan. “You okay, dude? That was quite the spill!” 

Ian barely nodded. He turned around and looked at the mess around him, and inadvertently blurted out, “Shit.” 

Beer was dripping from his hair, running down his back, and pooling in his pants. He could feel it seeping through his clothes and sticking to his skin.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, he looked up towards the alleyway door, only to see Mickey standing just inside of it, a smirk on his face. He had been bringing his supplies inside just before disaster had struck, and was heading back out to leave when he most definitely witnessed the entire thing.

Ian clenched his jaw and tried to look away, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that Mickey was still staring.

Eli clapped him on the back. “It’s okay, man. How about you head out early? You only have like fifteen minutes left anyways, and you’re gonna need to change. Grab your stuff.”

“You sure?” Ian asked. He hated how defeated he sounded, but he couldn’t stand to stay there much longer.

Eli simply responded by giving him a small shove back towards the doors to the breakroom. Ian walked with his head down, feeling the stares of all of the customers burning into his back, his face red hot with shame. He went through the motions of getting ready to go home on autopilot. He hung his damp apron up on the rack, clocked out, and threw his coat over his arm.

Grace gave another attempt at an apology as he headed towards the door, and he waved her off with a half-hearted smile. “It’s okay,” Ian said. “I’m just having one of those days. Don’t worry about it, Grace.”

He pushed through the front door, and once he was out in the street, took a deep breath. He knew that everyone inside was probably still watching him, but he felt a lot better just to be out of the restaurant, and he started on his way up the street. Maybe he could just go home and lay down for a few minutes, and things would get better. Ian was popping his headphones in, ready to blare his music and forget about the day, when he heard a voice call to him from the alleyway.

“Hey!” Mickey waved at him. He pulled out a pack of Camels and placed one between his lips, holding the pack up in the air. He raised his eyebrows in invitation. “Smoke?”

Ian looked down at himself for a moment, very aware of the fact that he was still covered in a half dozen beers, and realizing that he probably smelled like shit. What the fuck, why not? “Fuck it.”

He sauntered over to where Mickey stood, just below the bottom of the mural. The wall had morphed again since he had seen it last, the back cars of the train beginning to take shape. It had started to look as if the train was coming at you, exploding out of the bricks, shooting neon colours in every direction as it collided with the real world. Ian was impressed.

Mickey passed him a cigarette, lit his own, and then lit Ian’s. “Long day?”

Ian shrugged. He took a drag, feeling relieved. “I guess you could say that.”

“You really ate shit in there,” Mickey said with a laugh.

“Fuck off.”

Mickey inhaled. “I thought all you fancy waiters had to be coordinated and shit.”

“Alright, fuck you,” Ian contemplated throwing the cigarette on the ground and stomping off. Why did he keep talking to Mickey, anyways? They never liked each other, and they sure as hell weren’t friends. It was stupid, he was stupid, everything was stupid.

Mickey shoved his arm. “Relax. Jesus, Red. I’m kidding.” 

Ian was quiet, and he took in another lungful of smoke. Red. Red. The nickname echoed in his ears, and he let out an involuntary sigh. “A fucking... shitty day,” he finally said, his shoulders sagging.

Mickey nodded, and exhaled hard.

“I got a not-so-great grade,” Ian continued, unsure of why he was even saying this. Lately, he had found himself oversharing a lot, particularly in the vicinity of Mickey Milkovich, and he couldn’t seem to stop himself. The words just poured out. “It’s stupid, though. Like, it’s just one grade, but it pissed me off. I fucking suck at math, and it was stats midterm, and Lip’s busy and I thought I could just do it on my own but... apparently not,” he paused. “Fuck.”

Mickey didn’t say a word, and instead he did the last thing Ian expected him to. He reached out, grabbed Ian’s smoke from his mouth, and tossed it onto the pavement. Ian was about to cuss him out when Mickey rooted around in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a perfectly shaped pre-roll. 

“Here,” Mickey held the joint out. 

Ian looked over his shoulder. “You realize I work here, right?”

Mickey shrugged. “You’re telling me those hippie freaks aren’t stoned out of their tree every goddamn day? Besides, you’re off the clock.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Who gives a shit what you should and shouldn’t do?”

Ian cleared his throat, feeling embarrassed. “I’m not really supposed to drink or smoke or anything anymore,” Ian said, but his gaze moved down Mickey’s neck, along his strong, outstretched arm, to his tattooed knuckles, and finally to the dube that was looking surprisingly enticing. 

“Fine, I’ll smoke it and share. Then it doesn’t count.”

Ian couldn’t help but feel a smile spread across his face. Mickey was being shockingly nice to him, but in a way that didn’t feel like pity, which he appreciated. Whenever Fiona, or Lip, or even Carl and Debbie were being nice to him, it felt like they were doing it out of fear. They knew how bad things could get. They knew what Ian could be like. Even though they had been living with him their entire lives, they still seemed to think that if they were just nice enough to Ian, they could keep it from getting out of control again. It seemed like they thought that if they offered to hang out with him enough, or made things easier for him, or didn’t push him too hard, everything would be okay. He hated to sound like an ungrateful bastard, but it always made him feel weak, sick. It made him feel like he had no control over any of it, like they didn’t think he was strong enough to handle it on his own. Which, in retrospect, was probably a fair assessment, but still. 

This, Ian thought as Mickey lit the joint, was different. He knew that Mickey wasn’t pitying him. In fact, he didn’t really think that Mickey pitied anybody. He probably believed that anyone could get their shit together if they wanted, and it was up to them to figure it out, which Ian liked for some reason.

Ian took the joint from the other man and walked further back into the alley, dropping down out of sight behind the dumpster. He sat down with his back against the wall, and Mickey sat beside him, keeping at least six inches between them.

Ian inhaled a deep, burning gulp of earthy smoke, feeling it fill his lungs and creep back up his throat. It felt good. Really good. He hadn’t smoked weed in ages, the last time being a quick rip from Lip’s bong to celebrate him surviving his first year of college classes and Lip getting the summer internship that he had wanted.

He handed the joint back over. “Thanks.”

“No problem. You, uh,” Mickey paused, looking away. “...looked like you needed it.”

“Yeah,” Ian replied, staring straight ahead. He could feel the heaviness in his hands that he always got when he smoked, and it felt nice. He probably would have been able to forget why he was even so mad earlier, except that his shirt and pants were still soaked with beer and sticking to his skin uncomfortably.

There was a long silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was actually relieving. They passed the joint back and forth and sat together without speaking a word, and the late afternoon sun warmed Ian’s face and the pavement that they sat on. Slowly, he felt the worries from his day begin to evaporate with the beer and pop on his shirt, making him feel lighter. When Ian finally broke the quiet, he wasn’t quite sure why he said what he said. Maybe he was a little stoned, or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck anymore.

“Do you remember when you almost broke my nose?” Ian asked without warning.

“What?”

“Fifth grade. I forget why. Fiona was pissed, I came home and bled all over the couch.”

Mickey’s eyebrows drew together, and he considered this. Finally, he said, “You coulda’ just gave Iggy your lunch, dumbass.”

“That’s what it was about?” Ian laughed, unbelieving. The memories were slowly coming back to him. Ian had refused to give up his lunch - it had been a time where Fiona actually had a bit of money, and they had real ham for their sandwiches. Iggy had thrown him up against the wall before recess and had roughed him up a little, but Ian was stronger, and faster. He had just gotten interested in Cadets, and had been working out, praying that he would start to fill out by high school. He would have been able to hold his own if Mickey hadn’t shown up as backup, pinned him to the ground and connected his fist with Ian’s face.

Mickey discarded the roach and cracked his knuckles. “He was hungry,” his voice was toneless, and he had the same unreadable expression that Ian desperately wanted to figure out.

“Well so was I,” Ian countered.

Mickey let out a little huff. “Yeah, well you had your sister and shit, dinner at home. He didn’t.”

Ian felt a sinking in his gut. “Neither did you.”

“I figured it out. I was smart enough to swipe from corner stores without getting in shit. Iggy didn’t have nothin’ to use except his fists,” Mickey gestured towards Ian’s face.

Ian nodded in understanding. None of them ever really had it easy, but he knew that the Milkovich’s suffered more than 99 percent of kids their age. They had always been dirty, exhausted, and as mean as pitbulls. Everyone had heard enough stories about them growing up to understand that it wasn’t really their fault. Once Ian had become friends with Mandy in high school, he gained an even deeper understanding, and all at once he felt guilty for even bringing the almost-sort-of broken nose up in the first place.

“Well, are you hungry now?” Ian asked.

Mickey gave him a dubious look, and Ian simply raised his eyebrows in challenge.

“I could eat,” Mickey finally said. 

“Alright, let’s go,” and when Mickey stared at him suspiciously, he added, “You let me have half a joint and I haven’t smoked in forever. I always get the munchies.” 

“Seriously?”

Ian stood up, and started back out towards the street. “I gotta go home and change first, but then I was gonna go grab pizza before I study,” he paused, and realized that Mickey had also stood up, but wasn’t following him. “What?” 

Mickey narrowed his eyes. “This ain’t no date.”

“Not a date,” Ian agreed, trying to keep the surprise off of his face. “It’s just that I learned that apparently if I don’t share my lunch with a Milkovich I get socked in the jaw, so…”

Mickey’s face twitched. “Fine. Whatever.”

The pair walked in relative silence across the neighbourhood towards the Gallagher home, smoking another cigarette each. School buses started rolling up and down the city streets, and the usual sounds of honking horns, screaming kids, and shouting were strangely relaxing. Ian couldn’t help but sneak the odd sideways glance at Mickey, even though it felt forbidden. You’re allowed to think he’s attractive , he reminded himself, but it wasn’t much use. He still felt anxious whenever his mind roamed anywhere near those ideas. It was a line that was too easy to cross for him. One minute he was thinking that Mickey had nice arms, and the next he was wondering what it would feel like to be wrapped up in them, to be held by him and be close to his skin and know what he smelled like and… Jesus Christ. 

As they grew closer to his house, Ian started to wonder what the fuck he was doing. He had been keeping his thoughts about Mickey surface-level in nature, but each time he saw him again, it felt like he was getting closer and closer to opening Pandora’s box. It also felt incredibly juvenile - like he was trying to deny having a crush - and just the thought made him cringe with embarrassment. 

Yet, he couldn’t pretend like talking to Mickey over the past week hadn’t made him smile, and he loved the challenge of trying to crack his shield a little more each day. He couldn’t act like Mickey being nice to him, even if it was just sharing his pot in a back alley, didn’t make him feel special somehow. He couldn’t deny that he was starting to question if all his nerves and anxiety whenever Mickey was around had nothing to do with the beat downs and Kash and Grab robberies of the past. 

Shit.

Ian sucked in a breath, turning to head up the walkway to the front door of his house. He heard Mickey come to a stop behind him, waiting on the sidewalk.

“You can, uh, come in if you want,” Ian said, turning around. He hated how his voice sounded when he spoke. He sounded like a fucking teenager. “I mean, no one’s home or anything. Lip’s gone, Debbie’s at her boyfriend’s, Carl’s away at school and Fiona has a late shift tonight.”

Mickey swallowed, his eyes darting up and down the house that loomed in front of him. He seemed to be thinking it over, and just when Ian was sure he was about to say no, he mumbled out, “‘Kay, fine.”

Ian led him inside, unlocking the door and pushing heavily against it. It always jammed when the temperature dropped and rose. He shrugged his coat off in the hallway and threw it up on a hook, toeing his shoes off and looking around. Everything looked as it had when he left that morning - no one had been home. It was still kind of surreal.

“Want something to drink? Beer?” Ian asked as he walked through the living room. 

Mickey was looking around the house behind him, picking up trinkets off of the coffee table and examining them. “Thought you didn’t drink.”

Ian wandered into the kitchen. “Doesn’t mean there isn’t beer in the house. Frank would burn it to the ground if there wasn’t.”

“Alright, yeah. I’ll take one.”

Ian opened the refrigerator and rooted around, grabbing a bottle of Old Style off of the bottom shelf. He grabbed himself a Sprite. When he walked back into the living room he found Mickey standing by the fireplace, frowning at the photos on the mantle. He was focusing on one particular photo near the centre. It was an older photo of Ian - he was probably about fourteen in it - dressed in his JROTC uniform and standing on the front porch, right beside the ‘2119’ that stood out, stark against the fading blue paint. 

Ian walked up beside him, handing over the beer and popping open his soda. 

“Fancy ass uniform,” Mickey said absentmindedly.

Ian smiled, but he knew it didn’t carry to his eyes. It still hurt, sometimes, to see photos of himself pre-diagnosis. He was so confident, so sure of his future, like nothing could take it from him. He had no damn idea.

“JROTC,” Ian explained.

Mickey shook his head. “Pfft. Fuckin’ loser.”

“Hey,” Ian gave him a shove, but he didn’t feel particularly wounded. “Some of us channeled our energy into extracurriculars instead of felonies.”

“I don’t even have a felony, jackass,” Mickey shot back.

“I don’t believe you for a second. Coke trafficking?”

“Pinned that on my cousin.”

“Burglary?”

“I’m not that stupid.”

“Arson?”

“Didn’t press charges.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Terry found them in their motel and cut an ear off,” Mickey explained in an easygoing way, as if he hadn’t just told Ian his father had permanently mutilated someone.

Ian let out a breath. “Jesus.” He decided to try to push that image out of his brain by distracting himself, and he grabbed the takeout menu off of the coffee table. He sat down on the couch. “Pepperoni and cheese fine?”

Mickey gave him a sideways look. He was still standing near the front window, looking out into the neighborhood. “Don’t care.”

“Alright,” Ian pulled out his phone and dialed the number on the faded pamphlet. 

He ordered an extra large, in case anyone else came home hungry, before hanging up and relaxing into the sofa. He drank his Sprite and watched Mickey carefully. He tried not to stare when Mickey raised the bottle to his lips, took a swig, and swallowed, licking his lips after. Fuck. 

Ian decided to break the tension by turning the TV on, and he flipped to the first half decent movie that was on at four on a Monday afternoon. It was something stupid starring Adam Sandler, but it was good enough to fill the quiet that had settled over them. Finally, as if letting an imaginary wall fall down, Mickey sat down at the other end of the couch and threw his feet up on top of the table.

“How do you decide what you’re gonna paint?” the question tumbled out of Ian’s mouth uninhibited. It had been one he had wanted to ask when Mickey first started working on the bridge painting inside, but was too afraid to. It seemed like that mural had been so unplanned, so spontaneous, and yet all came together somehow.

Mickey took a long drink. He seemed unsure as he answered, “Shit just kinda comes to me. I don’t know.” 

Ian was quiet, but Mickey continued again. “I see, like… a bunch of shit in my head. Pieces of a buncha’ different ideas. There’s always one that makes the most sense.”

Ian blinked, and looked down at his soda can. One that makes the most sense. Huh. 

“I was never good at art,” Ian admitted. “I was better at writing.”

“I bet,” Mickey replied. “You never shut the fuck up.”

Ian grabbed a throw pillow and whipped Mickey’s arm with it with enough force that he nearly spilled his beer. He immediately grabbed it with his free hand and tore it from Ian’s hand, swinging back, and knocking Ian’s pop sideways. 

“Dickhead,” Ian grumbled.

“Oh, good one,” Mickey said mockingly. “Where you learnin’ your insults from, Mandy?”

Ian shook his head, but he couldn’t help but smirk. Mickey was a smug dick, but he never stopped being himself for the sake of being worried about Ian’s fragility, and even just griping back and forth made him feel more and more human. 

“Mandy had nothing but nice things to say about you,” Ian said, but he was only half joking. Mandy spoke much more highly of him than he had expected.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure.”

“She does think your art is cool,” Ian told him. 

Mickey looked away awkwardly, toying with his beer bottle. “Yeah. She’s still up my ass about the college thing.”

“Maybe it would be good,” Ian offered, with a shrug. College had been alright for him, a lot better than he had ever anticipated. It was something to work towards, and it made his siblings proud, if not for anything else.

Mickey gave him a hard look. “Christ, not you too.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ian held a hand up. “I just think you can’t knock it until you try it.”

“You definitely can.”

Ian wasn’t sure what to say next, but he was interrupted by the pizza delivery man rapping on the front door. He jumped up and paid for their meal, bringing it back into the living room and immediately tearing a slice off. Ian hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the smell of melted cheese filled the room. His stomach growled.

He and Mickey spent the next half hour eating a few slices of pizza each and talking about nothing of importance. Mickey told him about Mandy’s new semi-boyfriend who seemed like a total pretentious asshole, and Ian talked about Lip’s stuck up college girlfriend that he had recently started bringing around. It was weird, really, how easy it was to talk to Mickey when they weren’t trying to strangle one another. They still snapped back and forth and threw out the odd expletive insult, but for the most part it was… effortless? Ian wasn’t sure if that was the right word, and it sounded strange to describe anything to do with Mickey that way. Maybe it was because both of them were past the point of giving a shit, but Ian felt a strange urge to be honest with him, to throw his cards on the table.

Well, maybe not all of his cards.

Mickey had finished off his third slice when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket. “Fuck,” he grumbled. “I gotta go. Colin.”

Ian wondered what it was that was making that line of worry appear between Mickey’s eyebrows. If it had to do with his brothers, it probably wasn’t anything good. “I need to get studying anyways,” Ian said.

“See? College - waste of time.” Mickey stood up and stretched.

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

“Pfft.” Mickey stepped towards the front door, and paused. “Uh, thanks for the pizza, or whatever.”

“No problem,” Ian smiled, and he felt the familiar warmth grow in his chest. Fuck off, he thought to himself. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Mickey shrugged noncommittally. “Depends…” he trailed off and looked down at his phone in his hands, leaving the rest unsaid. The worried line appeared again.

“Right,” Ian opened the door. For some reason, seeing that look on Mickey’s face bothered him. Maybe it was his natural instinct to want to help people, but he found himself wishing he could say something better than simply, “See ya.”

Mickey stepped on to the porch, and for once, gave a glance over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

When Ian closed the door behind him, he wasn’t quite sure what to think. His palms had started to sweat and he felt that stupid, twisty feeling that he had been trying to beat down all afternoon. This ain’t no date. Mickey’s words echoed in his head, anchoring him to reality. He had to get it together.

Ian knew he needed to be rational. The comment about them not being on a date had been a little out of place, but maybe Mickey was scared of giving Ian the wrong impression. Not to mention the obvious - Mickey had always hated him. Clearly he had changed in a lot of ways since high school, but they were still Mickey Milkovich and Ian Gallagher. They still had their pasts. 

Ian wasn’t even sure why he was having this internal debate with himself, anyways. What was he expecting? He knew damn well that he couldn’t be… anything. With anyone. Just because he had some stupid crush , or whatever it was, didn’t change the fact that he was sick. He was always going to be sick. He was allowed to think that Mickey was attractive, but that was it. Normally, he would allow himself to flirt, allow himself to consider the strictly sexual possibilities, but Ian was beginning to realize, though, that he might not be able to do that with Mickey. Whenever his mind drifted towards the realm of sexual fantasies, it tumbled without warning into an entirely different area - one that wasn’t allowed. 

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding and climbed the stairs to his room. 

Everything in the past week had been such a complicated, fucked up mess. Mickey was throwing off his balance - that was one thing he was sure of. Studying was going to be damn near impossible, but he reached for the stats textbook anyways.

-:-

It was Thursday night before Ian saw Mickey again. He had to admit he had been a bit disappointed on Tuesday afternoon when he didn’t show, and then worry began to bloom in his chest. Had something happened with his brothers? Was he okay? Was he coming back any time soon?

Ian wasn’t sure what was making him so concerned, but he couldn’t help but think about it when he came into his shift on Thursday afternoon. 

He had spent the morning doing more statistics exercises until he couldn’t take it anymore. He had wanted to give up a million times - but something stopped him. He would be flooded with thoughts of Mandy, and how she had believed in him with such ease, how she was so sure he could handle college. He thought about Mickey, who thought college was a colossal waste of time, and who he always wanted to prove wrong just for the satisfaction of it.

Work had been quiet. Mickey hadn’t been there when Ian arrived at 3 o’clock, so he threw himself into his shift, cleaning everything around the bar and counter until it was spotless. He dusted the shelves and liquor bottles, scrubbed the shelving beneath the register, and beat out the mats out the back door with a broom, but it didn’t distract him like he had hoped.

Ian was carrying trays of sandwiches and IPA’s to the only two occupied booths when Mickey eventually came in. He looked tired, and his usually well maintained hair was disheveled on top of his head. His eyes were dark, and clouded with worry. 

Ian dropped off the meals before following Mickey into the back room where the supplies sat, untouched, waiting. 

“Hey,” Ian said, trying to keep his voice level.

Mickey squatted down and began picking through the spray paint cans, choosing which ones he would need. Without meeting Ian’s eyes, he replied, “Hey.”

“Uh, you okay?” Ian asked. 

“Fine.” Mickey’s voice was flat.

“You look like shit.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Mickey stood up. He pulled an armload of cans to his chest and headed back out into the dining room towards the side exit. 

“Something happen with your brothers?” Ian followed behind him, persistent.

Mickey said nothing, and pushed through the side door. Ian glanced over his shoulder at the mostly empty dining room, and Grace, who was polishing glasses near the register. He turned and followed Mickey out into the alley, feeling reasonably confident that he wasn’t going to get in trouble for not technically being on his break.

Mickey began setting up his supplies, while Ian stood next to the dumpster, unsure what to say next. Instead, he watched Mickey prepare to work. He watched how he assembled the cans in front of him, took several large steps backward, and took in his work so far. His eyes darted around the wall, planning his next course of action. 

Finally, a few moments later, he spoke. “The fuck do you want, Gallagher?”

“You can talk about it, you know. If you want,” Ian replied, leaning against the dumpster. “Sometimes it helps to talk to an outside party.”

Mickey snorted, still staring up at the mural. He picked up a can of bright orange. “Who the fuck told you that? A therapist?”

Ian shrugged. “Yeah.”

Mickey finally looked over at Ian, and he had that unreadable look on his face again. His eyes flitted away. There was a long silence, and when he began to paint, he said, “Colin’s goin’ back to the pen. Probably. I don’t know. He got picked up last night on a run on the West Side and it wasn’t good.”

“Oh,” Ian wasn’t sure what to say.

“It’s not like I give a shit, or anything,” Mickey sniffed. He swiped stripes of paint across the wall, aiming the can and pressing the trigger as if he was directing his anger at the mural. “It’s his fuckin’ fault. But my fuckin’ dad got them into this mess, I can’t just let em’ fend for themselves. They’re too god damned stupid. They’re too stupid to get their shit together, and I think they kinda hate me for trying.”

“You have to care about yourself, too, though,” Ian felt defensive for no reason. It was good that Mickey wanted to make something of himself, wanted to make honest money. There was nothing wrong with that.

“It ain’t that easy.”

“I know.”

“He’s probably fucked anyways.”

“Maybe.”

“Whatever,” Mickey continued strategically spraying swipes of bright yellow on the brick. He kept his jaw set, clenched in clear frustration, and Ian could see the lines forming across his forehead. He was throwing himself into his work head first - that much was clear - and he stared straight ahead, blocking out everything in the peripheral. 

Ian reached into his pocket. “Smoke?” 

Mickey didn’t look at him, but he nodded. Ian pulled out two cigarettes and stuffed the pack back into his coat. He placed his own between his lips and lit it, then handed the other over to Mickey, who dropped his spray paint can to the ground. Ian reached out and lit the cigarette in the other man’s mouth. It felt strangely intimate whenever he did that, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t like the way Mickey’s eyes fell to Ian’s hands, watching him carefully.

Ian sucked in. For a moment, he felt guilty that he wasn’t inside helping, but he hadn’t heard the bell above the door ring yet, and the nicotine did feel pretty damn good right about now. 

Mickey leaned back against the wall, just along the edge of the wet paint. He took a drag, and as if he could read Ian’s mind, he said, “Almost quit, ya know. Didn’t expect you to be such a bad influence.”

“Quit smoking?”

“Bad for you, or something.”

Ian laughed. “I guess. I can’t drink or anything anymore, but I’m still allowed to smoke. I’m not giving up the one thing I have left anytime soon,” he inhaled. “Plus, everything is trying to kill us all the time. Even our own brains. So who cares?”

“Jesus, Gallagher. Shit’s depressing.”

“Sorry,” Ian said, his gaze falling to his feet.

Mickey ashed his cigarette. “Whatever. It’s honest.”

Ian swallowed, and felt that familiar twist in his gut that was growing more and more used to. Mickey thought he was honest . It felt good. He liked honesty. There was nothing that he hated more than the people in his life dancing around his diagnosis, trying to delude themselves into thinking it was something it wasn’t. Everyone around him was constantly lying to themselves, and it drove him insane. He was sick. He was never going to get better. He acted fucking crazy sometimes. He was always going to have to deal with it. It was always going to suck, in one way or another. All he ever wanted was for them to just be truthful about it. 

“So,” Ian broke the silence that had grown. “How much longer until you’re done?” he gestured up at the mural above them.

Mickey looked up. “I don’t know. A couple of weeks. The front of the train doesn’t look quite right, I’m gonna paint over later today and try again, if the weather holds out. Still not done the painting inside, either.”

Ian nodded, and exhaled a mouthful of smoke when he spoke. “I think it looks great. But I wouldn’t know the difference.”

“You would,” Mickey countered, unexpectedly. “People always think something looks fine, until they see it when it’s right . They just don’t notice it’s messed up during the process. That’s why they’re not artists.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Ian admitted. 

“Just do,” Mickey threw his cigarette on the ground and toed it out. “Thanks for the smoke, man.”

Ian couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. He tossed his own smoke down and stepped on it. “No problem.”

Mickey picked up the spraypaint can again, and Ian could tell he was itching to get back to work, to fall into his own world again. Ian headed back for the side door with a small parting nod, and paused for a moment to watch as Mickey started back into his project. The frustration and anger seemed to melt off his face, this time, making way for steadfast determination. 

In a way, it was kind of amazing.

-:-

Ian was spraying down tables and booths that afternoon, shining them up, when Eli came through the front door with an armload of chips and baked goods, trying not to lose any. A bottle of wine in a brown paper bag was tucked under each arm.

“Hey!” Eli called out. “Can you give me a hand?”

Ian threw his rag over his shoulder, running over to grab the bottles from Eli before one fell to the ground. Johanna appeared behind her boyfriend, carrying a case of beer with bags of groceries hanging from each of her wrists. Ian could see bags of corn chips and boxes of appetizers peeking out from the bags.

“Big party?” Ian asked.

Johanna moved past him, setting the beer on the counter. She gave him a look. “Ian. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Forgot..?”

“You did !”

Eli dropped his items on to the counter beside Johanna’s, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a smile. “You’re never going to live this one down.”

“The staff party!” Johanna exclaimed, incredulous. “I can’t believe you totally forgot!”

Staff party? Ian was sure that no one had mentioned anything to him about any party. His boss was staring at him, though, so he smiled and attempted to fake it. 

“Right, yeah,” he tried. “Must have just temporarily slipped my mind. Uh… when exactly was it, again?”

Johanna shook her head. “Nice try. It’s on Saturday. We’re closing up at 5.”

“Oh, okay.”

“So you’ll be there?” Johanna’s expression was expectant. 

Ian nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Johanna smiled at him, and turned to begin organizing her groceries, sorting the food out and stashing the bottles of booze beneath the counter as. Ian took his rag in his hands and headed back to where had left off - wiping down the back middle booth - and he considered what he agreed to. 

Maybe a night off wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, all things considered.

-:-

Taking Saturday night off was actually strange for Ian. He hadn’t had a Saturday without work in months - it was usually one of the busiest nights and he almost always made his best tips then. Although he was still spending the evening at The Freight Train, it was nice to be able to relax, unwind, and actually enjoy himself with people that he liked to be around. He didn’t get to do that very often, and it was a welcome change.

Ian toyed with the hem of his shirt, unsure. He had only had an hour between the end of his shift and the staff party, and he had made a quick run home to shower and change before heading back to the restaurant. He hadn’t really had time to overthink his outfit, but now that he was surrounded by all of his well-dressed and trendy coworkers, he felt like maybe he should have borrowed a nicer shirt from Lip. He was wearing a dark blue polo and jeans, paired with his usual black tennis shoes, covered in stains and scuffs. He had tried to tame his hair into something presentable - he was still waiting for his haircut from Mandy - but despite his best efforts it seemed to curl and stand on ends in spots.

He was standing along the counter, but towards the back of the restaurant, sipping on a fancy virgin drink that Nat had put together for him. Griff was sitting on a bar stool beside him - his foot was in a bright orange cast and propped up on the next stool over. He had been discussing the grim details of his broken foot with Ian, the two finally getting a chance to get to know one another.

Ian was laughing at Griff’s story about his crutches getting stuck in the door on the L when he looked up to see Mickey standing in the front entrance, looking just as awkward as Ian felt. He was dressed in his usual torn black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a grey jacket. His hair was slicked into a neat style, and it looked good on him. He looked put together and handsome, but he still looked like himself. Ian broke his gaze away, trying not to stare.

Mickey caught Ian’s eye for a moment, before Jo rushed up to him and handed him a mixed drink, drawing his attention away. 

Griff was still rambling on, and Ian was learning quickly that he was a talker. Maybe that was why Eli and Jo liked him so much. Ian nodded along, smiled, and laughed in the right places, but his mind was drifting elsewhere. He couldn’t help but watch Mickey out of the corner of his eye. He was sitting on one of the stools along the counter as well, but closer to the front entrance,  in the middle of a conversation with Jo, who was gesturing excitedly around the room. Mickey looked slightly alarmed and Ian couldn’t help but smile down at his Shirley Temple. 

Eventually, more guests came through the door, and Jo moved on to greet them, slipping away with a gentle touch to Mickey’s arm. He stayed sitting at the bar, but his eyes were moving awkwardly around the room, searching. His gaze landed on Ian. 

Ian swallowed down the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on the counter. “Excuse me,” he nodded to Griff politely, and slid in between party guests as he made his way to the front of the restaurant where Mickey sat. 

“Hey,” Ian sat down on the stool beside him.

Mickey gave him a sideways glance. He nodded.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” 

“Neither did I,” Mickey huffed. “Jo fuckin’ cornered me in the parking lot.”

“Sounds like her.”

Mickey took a long drink from his glass of what looked like Jack and Coke. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What do people even do at these things?”

Ian leaned forward against the counter, grinning despite himself. “Well… most people get drunk and eat a bunch of gourmet pizza. Gourmet pizza is like regular pizza except shittier.”

“I thought gays were supposed to love all that gourmet shit.”

Ian snorted. “Not Southside gays.”

There was a long pause, then Mickey asked, “So is that what you’re gonna do then? Get drunk and eat pizza?”

“Not supposed to drink.”

“But you can have one, right? Or are you like an actual alcoholic?”

Ian laughed, and looked away. “Not an alcoholic, surprisingly. You’d think so. It’s just my meds, I can’t drink on them.”

Mickey said nothing, but swirled his own drink in his hand. They sat in a comfortable silence again, and Ian let his eyes wander around the room. There were clusters of two or three people dotting the dining room, and Nat was behind the counter, excitedly mixing drinks for anyone who asked. Jo and Eli were drifting from person to person with a tray of finger foods. Fairy lights were strung around the room - a new addition to the ambient lighting at The Freight Train - and a couple of banners and streamers had been hung for the occasion. Ian had to admit that they had done a really good job.

Mickey suddenly lifted his hand, catching Nat’s attention. “Two more, thanks.”

“I said people get drunk at these things, not blackout,” Ian commented, watching Nat set two more drinks on the bar in front of them.

“They’re not both for me, dumbass,” Mickey slid one towards Ian.

“I shouldn’t-,”

“C’mon. One. It won’t kill you.”

Ian considered it for a moment. One would probably get him pleasantly tipsy, borderlining on intoxicated, but it wouldn’t get him completely trashed. Probably. He knew that following a Milkovich’s advice wasn’t the brightest idea he ever had, but the drink looked cool and inviting, and it had been so long since he had been able to feel that happy buzz between dazed and drunk. He picked up the glass and took a sip. It was perfectly mixed.

“There,” Mickey said, looking a little too triumphant. “Now maybe you won’t be such a tight-ass.”

Ian frowned. “I’m not a tight ass.”

“Sure you are. Always were.”

“Fuck you, I wasn’t,” Ian shot back, and took another drink. God, Mickey was insufferable.

“You were so. Always pitched a bitch fit whenever I snagged the Pringles at the Kash and Grab. Like big deal, that fuckin’ pervert was out a couple of bucks. I wouldn’t have had to make such a scene if you could’ve just been chill about it.”

Ian couldn’t help but cringe at Mickey’s description of Kash. Strangely enough, a part of him still wanted to defend him, even though now that he had gotten older he couldn’t help but see it was true. It made him feel stupid to admit it, though.  He sighed. “It was my job.”

“See?” Mickey pointed his glass at Ian, a smirk playing at his lips. “That right there. That’s something a tight ass would say. Tight asses give a shit about their minimum wage jobs.”

“I needed the money. They let me work under the table for years.”

“Under the table, huh?” Mickey raised his eyebrows.

Ian rolled his eyes. Jesus. “Fuck you, not like that.”

“But it was a little like that, right?”

Ian wanted to fight back, to lie and deny it, but there was something about Mickey that made it hard to put up a front. He wasn’t the best liar to begin with, but it felt like Mickey would see right through him. Ian wasn’t really sure why. “Shut up,” he said.

Mickey snickered and took another long swig. “All I’m saying is it isn’t a crime to unwind.”

“Yeah…” Ian trailed off. “Except that sometimes when I unwind, I can’t always… get wound back up. Kind of gotta be careful.”

Mickey didn’t look phased. “All of us have trouble getting wound back up. That’s why ninety-five percent of the shitty neighbourhood consists of alcoholics, gamblers, drug addicts and whores.”

“Which one are you?” Ian asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mickey picked up his glass, sipped, and swallowed. “I’m a Milkovich. Different problem.”

“I think Gallagher’s are just a horrible combination of all of the above,” Ian conceded. He was fairly sure that he was an even worse breed of Gallagher, though. He tried not to think too hard about it. The liquor was slowly starting to warm his body, starting with his ears and cheeks, which always turned a rosy pink whenever he drank. It was surprising how quickly the alcohol was starting to make him feel relaxed and pliable. 

They continued to drink in silence, watching as Nat dashed back and forth with different bottles of liqueurs and mixers. She was definitely in her element, Ian thought. As the night wore on the conversation grew more boisterous, and the Indie party music got louder. A couple of the waitresses were dancing and wheeling Griff around in his crappy rented wheelchair, and Jo was cheering them on with a glass of rosé in hand. Ian was taking the last sip of his drink, the ice cubes settling in the bottom of the glass, when Mickey elbowed him. 

“How ya’ feeling?” Mickey asked. It was strangely amiable, coming from him, and Ian smiled.

“Good, actually.”

Mickey gave a sideways grin, and Ian could see that his eyes were starting to glisten as he ordered his third drink. 

“Told ya’ one wouldn’t kill ya’,” Mickey said. 

“Yeah,” Ian replied, “but I do feel a little drunk.”

“From one?”

“Side effect of the meds. That’s why I’m not supposed to drink, it makes it more intense, I guess.”

Mickey mulled this over. “So would a second drink be like, bad?”

Ian shrugged. Probably , he thought to himself, but this one went down pretty smoothly. “I don’t know,” Ian said. “Maybe.”

“One more, and then I promise it’s waters from here on out,” Mickey caught Nat’s attention again. “I can’t sit here and drink by myself,” he added, “makes me feel like your dad or some shit.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Well gee, when you put it like that…”

Nat slid the two drinks towards them with a smile, and Mickey nodded to her. He picked one up and handed the other over to Ian. 

Ian stared at the dark, bubbling mixture, and wondered for a moment if he was making a momentous mistake. They had had a few good conversations in the past couple of weeks, but still, being even remotely vulnerable around Mickey made his chest tighten and his stomach turn. Ian shook his head. It was too late to try to be the voice of reason, and if he took it slow with his second drink, he would be fine. He took a sip and tried to relax.

The minutes began to blend together and the party went on around them. He and Mickey didn’t talk about much of anything, and Ian tried to sip his drink slowly as his coworkers circled around the room, visiting him one by one. Mickey had ordered a couple of shooters while Ian continued to nurse his Jack and Coke, and by the time Grace had stumbled over and said hello, they were  both feeling pretty good.

It wasn’t until he was two thirds done with his second drink that Ian decided to check his watch, and realized that it was almost ten. He hadn’t even noticed the time go by, but he was aware that he was growing more social with each person... and probably slightly more annoying. His face had gone from a light pink to a bright red, and the edges of everything in the room around him had begun to blur, the fairy lights twinkling in the corner of his vision. 

Ian stood up to go to the washroom, and he noticed that he was staggering a bit in the hallway, his balance swaying from side to side. When he returned, it took him a moment to climb back up onto the barstool and right himself.

“You good, Gallagher?” Mickey asked.

Ian looked at him and blinked. Mickey was smiling again. Actually, genuinely smiling. It was a carefree smile that actually travelled to his eyes in a way that Ian had never seen on him before. Why couldn’t he smile like that more? Why did it look so good?

“Um,” Ian stuttered. “Yeah, m’good.”

“Ready for your water?” Mickey asked.

Ian was aware that he was probably staring, but his inebriated mind wouldn’t let him stop. “Yeah.”

Mickey eyed him for a moment, then flagged Nat down for a water. He passed it over, shaking his head. “You weren’t kidding. You really are trashed off two drinks.”

“Told ya,” Ian shrugged, and leaned into the bar. He knew he was slurring his words. “Meds.”

Mickey nodded at the new glass in front of him. “Drink up.”

Ian took a long gulp of the ice cold water, and it felt good going down his throat. It was refreshing. He took a few more sips, letting it settle in his stomach. “I should probably get going soon,” Ian said, his eyes travelling to the front door. Before I do something stupid, his mind filled in.

“Now?” Mickey asked. 

Ian let out a sigh. “Yeah,” he replied. “M’kinda tired… kinda drunk. Should probably go before I say something embarrassing in front of my bosses.”

Mickey grabbed his drink and finished it off, setting the glass back down on the bartop. Without hesitation, he reached for his jacket.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Ian raised his eyebrows in question. 

“Let’s go,” Mickey stood up. “I’ll walk you home. You’re too drunk and too stupid to walk by yourself.”

Ian frowned, feeling defensive. “You’re drunk too,” he argued.

“I’m not stupid, though,” Mickey snapped back. “I’ll walk ya’ home and make sure you don’t get fuckin’ mugged or dragged into the alley. If anyone’s gonna rob you, it might as well be me.”

Ian wasn’t entirely sure if that was a joke. His inner fourteen-year-old was panicking, a mixture of excitement and anxiety filling him. He also briefly considered calling a cab, but when he looked up at Mickey standing over him, all he could say was “Okay.” 

Ian grabbed his jacket that was draped over a nearby stool. He wandered through the crowd and said a few goodbyes before saying thank-you to Jo and Eli, then followed Mickey out the front door into the street, the cool fall air hitting his face and waking him up. The evening was chilly, but calm, and there was a dampness in the air that usually came with mid-autumn.

Ian blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light outside. Mickey came up beside him, and they started down the sidewalk towards the Gallagher house.

As they walked, Ian tried unsuccessfully to ignore the fact that their shoulders were only a few centimeters apart. Or the fact that he could smell something - something he thought might be Mickey’s cologne - drifting into his space. Or the fact that Mickey was flushed, too, and he was dragging his feet in a way that made Ian wonder if he had had an extra shot that Ian hadn’t seen while he was in the bathroom.

Their quiet trip gave Ian time to reflect on his night, and maybe he really was wasted, but it was nice . He could at least admit that. It was nice drinking with Mickey, talking to Mickey, walking down the street with Mickey. He had made the party actually bearable, which was saying something. Mickey was good looking and god damn it, he wasn’t bad company either, and even if sober Ian couldn’t deal with those thoughts, it was true. 

Maybe, just maybe, Ian had some kind of feelings towards Mickey. 

He already knew that he found him attractive, there was no hiding that. But would it be so bad if he had… a crush, or whatever it was? Sure, it was entirely possible that Mickey was straight, or that he would have zero interest in Ian at all, but there had been something in the way he looked at Ian when they were getting ready to leave that made him wonder. It made him want to pry, to figure it out, to get answers, and if there was something that Ian was good at, it was that. 

Walking under the washed-out glow of the streetlights, he kept glancing over at the other man, and he noticed details that he had never seen before, not even when he was dead sober. Mickey had a scar at the base of his neck that travelled up into his hairline. His eyelashes were surprisingly long, and Ian could tell even from a distance. His skin was incredibly clear, although there were a couple of spots where he had nicked himself shaving, and another scar above his brow. 

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey asked, finally noticing Ian staring.

Ian tried to come up with an excuse, but his booze-adled mind offered up zero response. “Nothing,” he said simply.

“Right.”

“Shut up,” Ian gave him a shove, stumbling.

Mickey shoved back, also fighting to keep his balance. “Fuck off.”

There was a beat of silence, then Ian finally blurted out, “Thanks for hanging out with me tonight.”

Mickey glanced sideways at Ian. “Whatever.”

“No, it was nice,” Ian said. “I usually hate that kind of stuff.”

“Yeah, well,” Mickey sniffed. “I got you drunk. Everything’s more fun if you’re drunk.”

“Nah,” Ian kept going. “Being drunk usually just makes shit more miserable for me, but not tonight. I had fun tonight.”

Mickey looked like he was contemplating something, his jaw working back and forth. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Eventually, he spoke. “Me too,” he said.

Ian couldn’t stop the drunk, goofy smile that spread across his face. “Good.”

“Not really my usual scene, though,” Mickey added, and Ian could hear the slur in his words.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Mickey shrugged. “Usually there’s more hookers and blow.”

“Frank’s lady-friends at the Alibi hardly count as hookers.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Mickey cringed. “I said hookers and blow, not syphilis and meth.”

“Not very Milkovich of you,” Ian countered, giving a sideways smile.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Mickey looked off down the street. “Think I started losin’ the Milkovich stamp of approval when I got a job and a fucking chequing account.”

“Fuck em’,” Ian replied. “I quit drinking. There’s nothing less Gallagher than that.”

“You’re drunk right now, shithead.”

“Yeah, but…” Ian trailed off for a moment. It was so much harder to do this back and forth when inebriated. “You bought them for me. Doesn’t count.”

“Pretty sure the Illinois taxpayers paid for all of your dickhead father’s drinks.”

“Nah,” Ian explained. “Not just taxpayers. He also stole our rent cash a few times. Tried to swipe my JROTC field trip money once, but I got him over the head with my desk fan.”

Mickey laughed at this, and Ian felt that familiar flip in his gut. He felt strangely satisfied when he was able to get Mickey to genuinely laugh out loud, even if it was at the expense of Ian’s fucked up childhood. 

“Wish I had hit Terry with a fan,” Mickey said, somewhat to himself. “Or a truck.”

“If it would make you feel better, you could hit Frank with a truck.”

“Nah,” Mickey answered. “Not the same satisfaction. Plus, he owed Terry like three grand. I don’t wanna do that fucker any favours, even if he is six feet under.”

The pair rounded the corner to Ian’s street, and he felt a bit let down as they got closer and closer to the Gallagher’s house. Although Ian was exhausted and couldn’t wait to be in his bed, he really had enjoyed himself, and he liked spending time with Mickey. It might have been the whiskey, but it seemed like Mickey was more open. He was more himself that night. Ian felt like it was the only opportunity to really see more of him, even if it was just for a moment.

When they grew closer to his walkway, Ian stopped. “So is this the part where you mug me now?” he asked.

“Twenty bucks and half a pack of smokes doesn’t really seem worth the trouble.”

“Hey, I have at least thirty on me.”

“Jesus, Gallagher, don’t go announcing that in this neighbourhood.”

Ian smiled, and started towards the porch, taking a couple of steps backwards. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Christ,” Mickey wrinkled his nose. “You sound like a fifteen year old girl comin’ home from prom.”

“If I were a fifteen year old girl coming home from prom I would invite you inside because my parents aren’t home.”

Mickey actually flushed at this. Ian felt like he could throw up, but he felt oddly proud of himself. Take that.

“Fuck off, or I will take your fuckin’ wallet.”

Ian smiled. “Alright, alright. Have a good night, Mickey,” he headed for the porch steps. 

“Night,” Mickey said behind him, so quiet Ian almost missed it. Night.

Mickey turned and started in the direction of the Milkovich home, while Ian dug for the spare key to let himself in the house, his heart pounding in his ears. 

It was hard to keep up with everything that was going through his head - and the alcohol wasn’t really helping, either. He was trying not to think too hard about all of the realizations he had had in the past half hour, but at the same time, it was the only thing that he could focus on. He had no idea if he could really come to terms with the fact that maybe he was interested in Mickey in a way that was not just strictly sexual. Every time he tried to dig into that, he could feel some voice inside screaming at him to stop. He had no idea what Mickey had been thinking, either, and all of it was so confusing. It was a mess.

Mostly, though, Ian just felt happy, and ready to go to bed.

-:-

When Ian woke up the next morning, he had a throbbing behind his skull and a buzzing in his ears. He blinked against the harsh morning light that filled his bedroom, trying to orient himself, when he realized that the buzzing inside of his head was actually coming from his bedside table.

He fumbled for his phone desperately, and when he picked it up, he groaned.

“Fuckin’ Mandy,” he grumbled to himself. Why did she always have to call so god-damned early in the morning?

Ian briefly considered declining the call, but he knew that would only make her more persistent. Finally, he sighed and pressed the green button. “What?” he groaned.

“How’s the headache, asshat?” Mandy exclaimed, much too loudly.

Ian frowned. “How…?”

“Mickey said he thought you’d be feeling pretty great this morning.”

Ian sat up, switching the phone to his other ear nervously. “Why? What did Mickey say about me?”

“Relax,” Mandy snorted. “All he said was you guys had some staff party last night and that you’re a lightweight. He doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“What?” Ian felt the blood rush out of his face, which only served to exacerbate his headache. “We didn’t…”

“Jesus, Ian, chill out. I don’t care what you do.”

“But we don’t…”

“I’m not stupid. Mickey actually contemplated getting your number from me and texting you this morning. He’s sent a total of like, two texts to me in my entire life. I think he was actually worried or some shit. It was weird. Anyways, I have a question!” Mandy changed the subject quickly.

“What? He was going to text me?” Ian asked. “He was worried?”

“Focus,” Mandy interjected. “I said I have a question.”

“What?” Ian was trying to pay attention, but his head was swimming. He was desperately trying to sort out Mandy’s words despite still being half-asleep. Mickey had been worried? About him?

“You need a haircut,” Mandy said matter-of-factly, “and I’m free today. Are you free?”

“Uh,” Ian let out a breath. “Yeah. I work at three again, but before that I’m good.”

“Okay. Come over whenever,” Mandy replied, and hung up.

Ian stared at his phone. He ran a hand through his hair, which had gotten to the point that it was falling across his forehead and curling around the tops of his ears. He really did need a haircut, that much was true. He felt nervous at the thought of going over to the Milkovich home, and he couldn’t keep his thoughts from snowballing as he headed to the bathroom to shower. 

-:-

The Milkovich house was strangely quiet when Ian arrived. He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting, but it seemed incredibly empty. The yard had been somewhat cleaned up since the last time he had been by, and although cigarette butts still lined the walkway, the stray beer cans had been removed. The curtains in the front window were half open, but he couldn’t see very far into the house from the front yard. 

He climbed the steps to the front door, feeling that familiar knot in his stomach again. He reached up to knock, but the door opened in front of him, and he found Mandy standing behind it.

“Hey!” Mandy said, grinning and leaning against the doorframe. “Come on, I’m all set up!”

When Ian came through the front door, the first thing he noticed was that the living room was completely different. The walls had been painted at some point, and all of the old furniture had been replaced with new couches and chairs. They weren’t fancy by any means - they looked like they were still used and picked up from somewhere else - but they were different. A lot of the crap that had been piled throughout the home had been removed, or organized into totes. The house wasn’t spotless, or perfect, but it definitely was a lot more tidy than Ian remembered. There were still a couple of empty beer bottles on the end tables, and the kitchen still seemed to be partially home to Iggy and Colin’s operation, but the scales and supplies had all been shoved aside on the kitchen table to make room for Mandy’s hairdressing tools. She had spread out a towel and laid out her scissors, combs, razors, and other items that Ian didn’t even know the names of.

Mickey was sitting in a chair at the opposite end of the table, sipping on a light beer. He was wearing grey sweatpants with a black muscle shirt, and his hair had become a wispy mess of bedhead. 

“Drinking already?” Ian asked, trying not to cringe at the sight.

Mickey shrugged. “Hair of the dog,” he nodded at Mandy’s set-up. “You’re braver than me, man. Lettin’ her touch your head and shit.”

“Shut up,” Mandy shot back, and she grabbed Ian by the shoulders, guiding him towards the chair. “Alright, sit down.”

Ian pulled off his hoodie, tossing it on an empty chair beside him, and Mandy draped a small towel around the back of his neck.

“Is she gonna shave ya’ too? ‘Cause you know, if she hit’s the jugular, you’re fuckin’ done.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “When I do cut your throat open, it’s going to be on purpose.”

While this didn’t exactly comfort Ian, he still sat back into the chair and relaxed his shoulders. Mandy set to work, combing out his still-damp hair and circling him, deciding what she was going to do next.

 “How long do you want it?” she asked.

“Um, whatever. Pretty short, I guess. A little longer on the top, though.”

Mandy nodded and picked up her scissors. Ian tried not to think too hard about what she was doing and just trust her. She knew what she was doing, and besides, it was hair. It would grow back. Mostly, he tried to ignore the fact that Mickey was sitting at the other end of the table, his gaze boring into the side of Ian’s head. 

“You gonna be her makeup dummy, too?” Mickey asked, taking a sip.

“Why? Just because I’m gay?” Ian started.

“Hey, hey,” Mickey held a hand up in defense. “I don’t know. Mandy’s always making me watch that fuckin’ Ru Paul’s Fag Race or whatever the fuck it’s called. I don’t know what you do in your free time.”

Mandy paused, giving her brother a look. “Drag is an art.”

“Oh, art my ass. Anyone can stuff a bra and wear too much eyeliner. You do it all the time and you’re no artist.”

“Bite me,” Mandy huffed. “Painting some bricks doesn’t make you king shit either.”

“It does make me an artist, though,” Mickey replied smugly.

Ian felt Mandy run the comb through the hair on the back of his head, yanking a little too aggressively. “Hey, hey,” Ian said. “Can you save the sibling rivalry crap for after my haircut, please?”

“Sorry,” Mandy replied, snipping carefully near his ears. “Mickey could be working on his own projects, but you’re here, so…”

“A man can have a beer at his own table in his own house,” Mickey interrupted stiffly.

Ian stayed quiet, but the little flutter in his chest was hard to ignore. Mickey was there because he was there. It felt juvenile to be happy about that, but he was, and he tried hard to keep the stupid smile off of his face. He had other things he could be doing - important things, even - but he was sitting there and having a beer while watching Ian get his haircut. Granted, Ian was in his house, but still. He figured it had to count for something.

Eventually, Mandy did some work with the razor. She faded the sides and circled Ian over and over, double checking to make sure that everything was even. She would pause, frown, and then start again, until finally she let out a heaving sigh, and pulled off the towel that she had draped around Ian’s shoulders at the start. 

“There,” Mandy said finally. “You’re done.”

Ian reached around the back of his head and felt his hair. It was cropped short in the back, the way that he liked, and although he couldn’t see it, it felt normal enough. Mandy handed him a hand mirror and he took a look, turning his head from side to side. She really had done a great job, even better than the barber that Ian went to when he saved up a bit of money. She certainly did a better job than Fiona had ever done with a pair of kitchen scissors and a Barbie hairbrush.

“It looks great, Mandy,” Ian said, smiling. “Thanks.”

“You’re sure?” Mandy asked, and for a moment, panic flashed in her eyes. 

“Yes, I’m sure. Best damn haircut I’ve ever had.”

Mandy beamed at this, and Ian could tell she was proud of herself. She pulled out her phone and took several photos from every different angle. She didn’t stop smiling as she cleaned up and washed all of her equipment, and Ian was glad that he could make her feel that way. He really did want her to have faith in herself.

Mickey had been quietly drinking at the table, but as Ian set the mirror down and stood up, he spoke.

“You working this afternoon?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah, three. Why?”

He shrugged. “Just wonderin’.”

“You gonna come to work today?” Ian picked up his hoodie and pulled it over his head.

Mickey looked uncertain. “Maybe.”

“Wanna get lunch first?”

Mickey was peeling at the label on his beer bottle. He paused, and looked up. “Whatever. Sure.”

“Cool.” Ian tried to keep his face blank, but there it was again - that stupid, ridiculous twist. The feeling he was repeatedly getting in his stomach was halfway between anxiety and hope, and sometimes it came so suddenly Ian thought that he might be sick. He wished he could fight it off, or pretend that it was something that it wasn’t, but the more that it cropped up the more he realized what it meant.

It meant he really had a problem.

-:-

Ian and Mickey ended up at a burrito place several blocks away from the Freight Train. It was nothing fancy - some fast food place - but it was something different, and it wasn’t half bad. Ian had suggested it first, and Mickey had just gone along with it, and now they were sitting at a bright red booth across from the teenager who was working the cash and assembling meals. Besides Ian and Mickey, there were only a couple of other customers in the building, and it was quiet, save for some crappy pop music crackling through the speakers above them. Each of them had ordered a basic chicken and rice burrito. They sat across from one another, devouring their meals. The grease and carbs tasted delicious to Ian and they were definitely helping to quell the lingering effects of his hangover.

“What’re you going to work on today?” Ian asked, in between bites.

“Outside,” Mickey replied. “Finally some decent weather. I’m behind.”

“It looks really good.”

Mickey looked away, unsure of himself. “I guess. It’s not perfect.”

“Who gives a shit?” Ian replied. He took another bite, and chewed. “Perfect is stupid. When you try too hard to make something perfect you just end up ruining it anyways.”

“Nah,” Mickey shook his head, and crumpled the napkin in his hand. “It has to be the way I saw it in my head. I keep going until it’s how I saw it. I don’t give a fuck if it takes me an extra week or an extra month.”

Ian smiled. “So you’re a perfectionist.”

“Maybe, but I don’t paint shitty murals,” Mickey shot back. 

“Your Ian Gallagher Is A Dead Man mural was kind of shitty.”

“What?” Mickey asked, looking up.

“You don’t remember?”

Mickey frowned in confusion. 

“You spray painted that on the side of the Kash and Grab,” Ian explained, the memory flooding back. “Because-,”

“Oh right, when you fucked Mandy?”

“No! Well, sort of. I never fucked her. She wanted me to, that’s what she was mad about. I had to tell her I was gay so you’d stop trying to murder me at work.”

Mickey nodded slowly, mulling this over. He took a final bite of his burrito. “Yeah, well, that wasn’t really a mural. More of a creative death threat.”

“Dick,” Ian mumbled, shoving the remains of his burrito into the paper takeout bag. 

“Shoulda just let me have some god damned pringles,” Mickey retorted.

“Someone needed to put you in your place,” Ian said blatantly. He felt something warm spark inside his stomach, but he kept his expression neutral. 

Mickey looked up at him and raised his eyebrows. He looked almost uneasy, but still there was a glint in his eye that Ian almost had to look away from. His face held that same unreadable expression that had been bothering him for the past two weeks - it always seemed to dance between looking like he was going to punch Ian in the face, or… something else. Something unusual that made Ian’s throat feel tight and his chest feel hollow. 

Mickey sucked in his cheeks and let out a breath of air through his nose. “That so?” he finally answered.

“Yeah,” Ian said. “You were an asshole. You thought you owned the entire block, you needed to be taken down a peg.”

“Fuck you I did. That fuckin’ pedophile boss of yours deserved it. He didn’t even have the balls to stop a teenager from taking some chocolate bars. His wife was leading him around by the dick all day.”

Ian sighed. “He wasn’t a pedophile…” he trailed off, his words hollow.

“Yes the fuck he was,” Mickey argued.

“It wasn’t really like that.”

“Whatever,” Mickey shrugged, shaking his head. “Either way, he deserved to be robbed. Anyone who’s too much of a pussy to even arm himself in the Southside gets mugged, that’s just the way it works.”

Ian didn’t even have the energy to come up with a bullshit defense. In a way, he knew Mickey was right. He knew that Kash had been a complete coward, and hadn’t really been a good person, either. Still, Mickey robbing the place on the daily wasn’t exactly the most enjoyable experience, and he could’ve at least been less of a prick about it back then.

“You used to threaten to cut my fingers off,” Ian reminded him.

“Yeah, well,” Mickey stretched out, and leaned back in the booth. “Now I’m having lunch with you. So can ya move on?”

Ian smiled, unable to keep it off his face. It was interesting to think about, really. Even just a couple of weeks ago he had been sure that Mickey was going to rob the Freight Train. Now, they were eating burritos, and making actual conversation. All he had remembered him as was a gun-slinging, drug-moving, trash-talking piece of shit that he wanted to avoid if at all possible. Yet all it took was to actually have a couple of conversations, and spend a few days in each other’s vicinity, and Ian realized that there was something else there . Even though Mickey was still sarcastic, cold, and barely acknowledged that he enjoyed being around Ian, there was something about him that Ian was trying eagerly to pinpoint. Mickey wasn’t the picture that he had desperately painted of himself. 

“Alright,” Ian finally said with a smile. “Let’s go, I’m going to be late for work.”

The pair stood up and slipped out of the booth. Ian grabbed their garbage and tossed it into the trashcan on their way out, and headed into the street with Mickey following behind him. The neighbourhood was coming to life with it’s usual late afternoon traffic, and although Ian would normally pop his headphones in and let the music carry him through his walk, it wasn’t half bad to have someone with him. 

Although they didn’t really say much, Ian didn’t mind. Walks with Mickey Milkovich were starting to grow on him.

-:-

When Ian took his smoke break that afternoon, Mickey was standing at the top of a noticeably rickety ladder, a can of black spray paint in his hand. There were several other colored cans balanced on one of the rungs. He was detailing the front of the train, which had an old school light on it, which radiated bright streaks of colour out from it. 

Ian looked up and blocked the sun from his eyes. He tried to get a better look at the new details that had been added, peeking through the ladder around Mickey, whose back was still turned to him. He could tell that the tracks had had some work done on them, and that the background no longer consisted of vague shapes. Patterns had been added in, and it looked as if there was some actual scenery filling the spaces behind the train - boxcars, an old station, city buildings. It hadn’t lost it’s geometric touches, though. It was really a perfect blend of realistic and abstract, Ian thought, although he wasn’t much of an art connoisseur. 

“Hey,” Ian called up suddenly.

Mickey steadied himself on the ladder, and looked over his shoulder. “The fuck, Gallagher!” he shouted. “Scared the shit out of me!”

“Sorry,” Ian laughed. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Mickey huffed out. He tucked one of the spray paint cans under his arm and began to descend the ladder. 

“Smoke?” Ian held up the pack.

Mickey turned to Ian and threw the empty can over his shoulder. It clattered in the dumpster. “Yeah.”

Ian pulled out two cigarettes from his pack, lighting his own before handing the other one off. He went through his usual ritual of leaning in and lighting Mickey’s for him, despite the fact that it made Mickey bristle nervously. Maybe he did it because it made him bristle nervously, he wasn’t really sure.

“Coming along well,” Ian commented casually.

“I wasn’t gonna put the buildings in at first,” Mickey admitted, “but they pulled it together, I think. It was missing something in the back.”

“I like that you painted the yards. All the other tracks, and stuff.”

“That’s one of the hardest things to get right,” Mickey explained, gesturing vaguely to the wall. “When you paint shit vanishing into the distance like that, you have to get it perfect, or it throws off the perspective. If you’re off by half an inch you can tell, even if you can’t tell exactly what’s wrong with it.”

“It looks right to me.”

Mickey sighed, and took a drag. “It didn’t earlier. I was ready to jump off my fuckin’ ladder.”

“Ugh, don’t,” Ian groaned. “OSHA would have to be called, I’d probably have to drag your body back inside.”

Mickey ashed his cigarette and pulled a face. “Don’t call OSHA if I kill myself at work. Health and safety is bullshit. People who don’t know how to climb up on a step-ladder without dying don’t deserve any fuckin’ money.”

“Wow,” Ian laughed. “You’re a real bleeding heart.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Mickey said, holding up his hands in defense. “If you burn your face off trying to make me a latte today, you’re a moron.”

Ian quirked an eyebrow at this, smiling around the cigarette between his lips. “I’m making you a latte today?”

“It’s a hypothetical.”

“Mickey Milkovich drinks lattes?”

“Oh, get fucked,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “Pick a different drink then.”

“Mandy says that guys fake liking black coffee because they’re too big of pussies to drink whatever they want.”

“What?” 

“Just what Mandy says,” Ian replied. “But maybe she’s right. Don’t be a pussy, I can make you a latte.”

“Make me whatever the fuck you want, doesn’t mean I’ll drink it,” Mickey snapped. He looked away from Ian, and back up at the mural.

“Don’t believe you,” Ian said with a shrug. He took a final haul from his smoke and tossed it on the ground, snuffing it out on the asphalt. “I’m a fantastic barista.”

Mickey turned back towards him. “Do you hear yourself? The fuck is a barista ?”

“It’s like a bartender, but for coffee. Barista by day, bartender by night,” Ian explained.

“Jesus,” Mickey threw his cigarette butt down. “That’s… no wonder I beat you up.”

Ian rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, whatever. I gotta get back to barista -ing.”

Mickey nodded, and stretched his arms out before starting stepping up on the ladder again. He started his climb to the top. Ian watched him for a moment, but eventually headed back through the side door into the restaurant, feeling equally happy and deflated. It was strange, he thought. He had never really looked forward to his breaks in the past. He really did like his job, and usually the time passed without much notice. He always took his breaks, and that was fine, but he was never counting down the minutes before he could grab a bite to eat or go for a smoke like some of his coworkers.

Now, though, he had been thinking about his 15 minute break all afternoon. He had been itching to head out the door, and the second the opportunity came up, he called out to Jo and made a run for the alleyway. He also felt a pang of disappointment when he had to head back inside, and he found himself immediately glancing at the clock to see how much longer he had until his dinner break once he was through the door.

Ian wished that he could pretend that it was just because he liked having company while he smoked, but he wasn’t going to be able to fool himself. He knew it had a lot more to do with the specific company that he had. He got to spend his breaks with Mickey. He spent his breaks with Mickey, and he liked it, and was excited to see him, and he didn’t look forward to going back inside, and...

Ian took in a sharp breath as he stepped behind the counter. Things were most definitely getting worse.

-:-

The dinner rush had been busier than Ian had expected, and it was long past sunset before he got a moment to relax. When he looked at his watch, he saw that it was nearly 8:30 PM, and the odd stray Sunday drinker began to take up residence at the bartop. JJ - one of the part timer’s - was cashing out the last couple of tables, and Ian figured that things had calmed down enough for him to focus on his actual mission. 

It had taken Ian about twenty minutes to decide whether he was going to make a caramel macchiato or a caramel latte. He had briefly considered making a pumpkin spiced latte, but figured that might be too far, and finally decided on the macchiato. He had recruited Nat to help him get it perfect, and once he had added the drizzle on top, he was pretty sure they had created a masterpiece. He made himself a hazelnut iced coffee, which Mandy had suggested over text earlier, and grabbed his coat, smokes, and the drinks before heading for the side door.

When he stepped out into the alley, he realized how cold it was. The wind was beginning to pick up. Mickey was halfway up the ladder and was playing music through his phone that was stuck in his pocket, poised with a paintbrush in one hand as he added details to some of the boxcars. 

“Hey,” Ian called up, hoping he wouldn’t alarm Mickey this time.

Mickey looked over his shoulder, then down at the cups in Ian’s hands. “The fuck are those?” Mickey shouted as he started to climb down the ladder. He paused his music, silencing an alternative rock song that Ian really wished he could have listened to longer.

“Drinks,” Ian replied. When Mickey reached the bottom, he handed him the steaming cardboard cup. “This is a caramel macchiato,” he explained, and then held up the plastic cup in his hands, “and this is a hazelnut iced coffee.”

“A caramel what?”

“Macchiato.”

“The fuck is that?”

Ian shrugged. “Espresso, steamed milk, caramel stuff. It’s good, try it.”

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Mickey asked, but there wasn’t much force behind it, and he took a hesitant sip anyway.

“So?” 

Mickey looked down at the cup in his hand and frowned. “Tastes like I should pierce my nose and stop taking showers.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Ian laughed. “I made it with love and care.”

Mickey looked back up, and gave that same annoying, unreadable look, which melted into an expression of doubt. “Really?”

“Well, Nat helped. I did the drizzle.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a great fuckin’... barista, or whatever.”

Ian took a sip of his iced coffee and pulled out his smokes. “I lied.”

Mickey’s face became impassive again, and his eyes fell. He was doing that thing that Ian noticed he did whenever he was uncomfortable, and not sure what to say - he worked his jaw back and forth, almost grinding his teeth together. Finally, Mickey said, “you didn’t have to get me this.”

“I don’t care. It’s cold, and you’re out here in the dark.”

Mickey looked up at his work, then back off in the distance. He sighed. “Yeah, well, I’m behind. Trying to get shit done.”

There was a long beat of silence, and finally Mickey held his hand out for a smoke. Ian pulled one out, handing it over and moving closer to light it. Mickey nodded in thanks. He looked exhausted, Ian realized suddenly, and he still couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes. 

“Why are you bein’ all…” Mickey trailed off, then muttered, “nice to me?”

Ian paused, mid-sip, and stared straight at Mickey. He really didn’t see that question coming, and at the same time, he wasn’t really sure how to answer it. He could be brutally honest, but he figured that replying I think you’re hot and I’m starting to realize maybe you actually aren’t a terrible person even if you act like a total asshole sometimes and I really enjoy being around you and it’s possible I might actually have a stupid fucking crush on you… would be a bad move. 

Ian took a drag to spare him some time, exhaled, and finally answered. “Not sure, really.”

Mickey frowned.

“I guess…” Ian started. “I don’t know. It’s been nice talking to someone who isn’t constantly worried about how I’m feeling. My family, Jo, Eli, Nat… they’re nice, don’t get me wrong. I get that, but they’re just too nice. They’re always stressed about me being okay , and… I guess you’re not a total piece of shit like I thought you were.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Hey, fuck you,” he grumbled. There was a beat of silence, and he added, “I guess you’re not the complete pussy I thought you were.”

“Thanks,” Ian deadpanned.

“I don’t really…” Mickey looked uneasy. “I don’t really do the whole friend thing, man.”

“Me either, really. Lip doesn’t count as a friend, apparently.”

Mickey smirked. “So I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Are you saying we’re friends?” Ian asked, unable to hide the smugness in his voice.

“Fuck you, now I’m not.”

Ian tossed away his cigarette. “So when’s our first sleepover?”

Mickey pulled a face. “I’m drinking a caramel machi-whatever the fuck, I think that’s enough gay activities for one day. Don’t need to add a sleepover with a dude to the list.”

“A gay dude,” Ian reminded him sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Mickey threw out his smoke and took a chug from his coffee cup. 

Ian looked around at the scattered supplies on the ground, and finished off his iced coffee, the strong flavour from the hazelnut shot filling his mouth. He tossed the cup into the nearby dumpster.

“Need help cleaning up?” Ian asked.

Mickey shrugged. “Nah, I’m gonna stick around for a bit.”

“Alright,” Ian answered, checking the time on his phone. “Gotta get back to work.”

Mickey nodded, wordlessly, and picked up a spraypaint can off the pavement. Ian turned and headed back for the doorway, but just as he got beyond the dumpsters, he heard Mickey call out from behind him.

“Hey, uh… thanks, or whatever.”

Ian grinned, and tried to ignore the swell that he felt in his chest. He pulled open the door. “You’re welcome… or whatever.”

-:-

When Ian’s phone rang, it was just after 3 AM. 3:11, to be exact.

He knew this because he stared at the clock in the top corner of the screen as it buzzed, frozen in disbelief. MANDY stood out in bold letters. It was three in the fucking morning, and Mandy was calling him. He wanted so desperately to decline - he had a case study due the next day and he was absolutely exhausted - but there was a nagging feeling telling him it had to be important if she was calling him in the middle of the night. He pressed accept.

“Yeah?” Ian mumbled through a yawn.

“Ian,” Mandy’s voice was desperate, erratic. It sounded like she had been crying.

Ian sat up, his stomach sinking. “What’s up? What’s wrong?” 

Mandy let out a shaky breath on the other end. “It’s Mickey, you have to help me.”

“What?” Ian pushed himself up, switching the phone to his other ear as he jumped out of bed. Mickey. “What happened to Mickey?” 

“He took off. You have to help me find him,” Mandy begged.

“Took off? Where? Why?” Ian was aware that he was talking too loud, and that his voice had raised an octave in alarm, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck in that moment. 

“Colin... someone jumped him in jail. One of dad’s old enemies, I guess. They stabbed him… they don’t think he’s going to make it, Ian.”

“Oh, shit,” Ian breathed out, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he tugged a pair of jeans on. “Shit, Mandy. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s just… Mickey had already been drinking. I know something was bothering him, and when we found out he just lost it. He took off. I need your help, I have to find him before he does something stupid.”

“You at home?”

“Yeah,” Mandy sniffled and cleared her throat.

“I’ll be right there, okay? Hang on.”

Ian hung up the phone and finished getting dressed as quickly as he could. He grabbed a partially clean hoodie off of the floor and pulled it over his head, then slipped out his room. He took the stairs two at a time. He tried to stop the thoughts that were bombarding him as he sprinted down the street, ducking through alleyways to save time. Mickey took off. He was already drinking. Something had been bothering him. What was bothering him?

It had been a few days since Ian had seen Mickey. He had taken a few days off of work to study for a couple of his midterms, and he hadn’t had a chance to swing by and even look at the murals. He had been fine, though, when he saw him before. Everything had been fine.

Ian’s lungs were burning by the time he got close to the Milkovich’s house. He hadn’t been running enough, and smoking wasn’t helping any, but he didn’t give a shit. He ignored the fire in his chest, ignored the fact that his crappy tennis shoes were falling apart, ignored the fact that he was exhausted and it was three in the goddamned morning. He barely even noticed at all.

He flew up the steps to the front door and flung the door open. The house was dim, but there was a glow coming from the kitchen. There were beer bottles scattered on the coffee table, and one had clearly been broken, shards of glass littering the ground near the fireplace. “Mandy?” he called out.

Mandy appeared, stepping into the living room. She paused, let out a breath of air, and then crashed into Ian, enveloping him in a hug. “Thank you,” she mumbled into his chest.

Ian pulled back. “Got any ideas of where he might have gone?”

“He definitely wanted to be alone. I don’t think he would have gone to the bar or anything like that. Maybe the tracks? Or the docks? I don’t know… fuck. He might just be walking around, waiting to get into trouble.”

“Let’s just start walking towards the tracks,” Ian said, steadying a hand on Mandy’s shoulder. “Okay?”

Mandy nodded.

“We’re gonna find him, Mandy,” Ian assured. He turned around and stepped back into the entranceway, grabbing one of her coats off of the hook and handed it to her. “Let’s go.”

They headed out in the night together, Mandy calling out Mickey’s name furiously as they walked, and Ian trying to push down the anxiety and anger that were filling him up. The air was getting colder, and Ian could see his breath. He wondered if Mickey had even put on a coat, or if he was just wandering around in a t-shirt, uncaring. Fuck.

“Do you have your phone?” Ian asked suddenly.

“I already tried texting and calling him.”

“Give me his number,” Ian said. “I’ll try.”

Mandy pulled out her phone, and opened Mickey’s contact page, which was aptly named: “Dickface.” Ian typed the number into his own contacts, and added “Mick” to the list, before clicking the icon to send him a text. 

Ian: Where are you? -Ian

He jammed his phone and his hands in his pockets. His fingers were beginning to go numb, and he was really regretting not grabbing an extra layer before he left, but he barely remembered leaving.

Ian nearly jumped when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and Mandy took in a sharp breath. It buzzed twice more as he unlocked it.

Mickey: i know mandy called you but stay the fuck out of it

Mickey: go home gallagher

Mickey: please

Ian shook his head, gnawing at the inside of his cheek.

Ian: Not until I know you’re alright.

He stared at the screen. The bubble appeared showing that Mickey was typing, then disappeared, and then the next text popped up.

Mickey: i’m fine

Ian: Where are you?

Mickey: i know mandy’s with you

Mickey: just stay the fuck out of it

Ian blinked, trying to decide on a response. He sure as shit wasn’t staying out of it, even if that was stupid, and even if Mickey wanted him to. The need to make sure Mickey was okay was overpowering most of his common sense.

Ian: Can I see you alone?

Ian: Just me?

Mandy was reading the conversation over Ian’s shoulder, but she said nothing. There was a long pause. The typing bubble kept disappearing and reappearing, and for a moment, Ian thought that it was no use. Maybe Mickey wouldn’t answer him at all, and they’d be back to square one. Finally, though, a reply came through.

Mickey: meet me. ball field

Ian let out a woosh of air, relief spreading through him. He turned to Mandy. “He said he’d meet me if I go alone.”

Mandy bit her lip. “Are you sure? He might be… you’re sure you want to go alone?”

“I’m sure. I’ll be fine,” Ian replied firmly.

“Okay,” Mandy sighed. She ran her hand through her hair, and her face was strained with exhaustion. “You have to promise to text me when you find him, and you have to get him somewhere safe. I don’t trust him.”

Ian nodded, and leaned in to give her a hug. “I promise,” he answered. He held her for a moment before letting go and giving her a quick pat on the back. Ian started up the street in the direction of the school. 

“Text me,” Mandy reminded him again.

“I will!” Ian called over his shoulder.

Ian took off, settling into a more comfortable jog as opposed to a full-on sprint. He still felt his lungs strain as he passed house after house, moving from block to block, and the cold air was hitting the sheen of sweat that had formed across his forehead. 

His throat got tighter as he got closer, and he finally let himself wonder about what he might find. Mickey’s texts had been coherent, but Mandy had said he had been drinking. Was he hurt? Was he freezing his ass off? Had he already done something stupid before Ian or Mandy could even get the chance to stop him?

He came up behind the empty ball diamond and crossed the park. The field and part of the bleachers were illuminated by a floodlight, which was humming loudly. It flickered every once and a while. 

All at once, Ian heard a grunt, and the sound of glass shattering.

He sped up and rounded the corner, only to find Mickey at the foot of the bleachers, tossing up empty bottles from the recycling bin in front of him. He threw them up above himself and smashed them out of the air with a Louisville slugger. Mickey grabbed another bottle as Ian approached. He examined it carefully in his hand, and Ian pulled his phone half-way out of his pocket to send a quick text to Mandy before walking closer.

“Hey,” Ian called out, before Mickey could take another swing.

Mickey continued to eye the bottle, not looking up. He raised his eyebrows in a half-acknowledgment, but said nothing in response. Ian noticed right away that he had been right - Mickey was dressed in a thin black t-shirt and a tattered pair of jeans. He was probably halfway to hypothermia.

Mickey finally took the bottle in his hand and threw it straight up. He gripped the bat and took a strong swing, and it cut through the air, connecting with the bottle and sending glass shrapnel in every direction.

“Mickey…” Ian started.

“What?” Mickey barked, finally turning to look at Ian.

Ian took another step closer. He sighed, and peeled his hoodie off, bristling against the cold. “Here.”

“I’m fine,” Mickey growled, and he rooted through the bin for another bottle.

“For Christ’s sake, take it,” Ian held the sweater out. “I’m not taking you to the hospital when you’re hypothermic. Take it.”

Mickey stared at him - giving Ian that insanely unreadable look with glassy eyes - before finally dropping the bat and snatching the sweater. He held it in his hands for a moment and looked it over, and then pulled it on. It was too big for him, and it looked sort of awkward, but Ian knew his body had to be thankful for the warmth and comfort that it brought, even if he wasn’t.

There was a beat of silence, before Ian asked, “What are you doing?”

Mickey shrugged. He looked away. “Smashing shit.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fucking mad, and shootin’ shit would be too loud,” he answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Look, Mandy told me…”

Mickey let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his eyes and picking the bat back up. “Yeah, I know what she told you, but I’m fuckin’ fine. She called you because she thinks that since I hang around your faggoty ass now I want to boo-hoo about my problems to you, but I don’t, and I’m fucking fine .”

Ian stood, unable to move, feeling like he had been punched in the gut. Then, he felt mad. “Fuck you, Mickey! My faggoty ass was just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want your fucking help,” Mickey snapped, turning away.

Ian took a step closer. “And that’s too damn bad!”

“You know you’re not my friend, right?” Mickey said with a wry laugh.

“That’s bullshit,” Ian hissed. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Just because you’ve been fuckin’... bothering me at work doesn’t mean shit.”

“You never told me to leave you alone.”

“I shouldn’t fuckin’ have to!”

Ian let out an angry huff. “Give it a rest, Mickey! Just… stop. How about a coffee?”

“What?”

“A coffee. It’ll warm you up,” Ian felt defeated, and he was doing his best to pretend that hurt wasn’t blooming in his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and stomp his way back home, to get back in his bed, and pull the blankets over his head. He wanted to pretend the night had never happened, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Mickey turned and his eyes fell on Ian. For a moment it felt like he was looking straight through him, and it made Ian shiver. He was still holding the bat in his right hand, but his grip had loosened and it had slipped down to rest against the ground. Mickey swallowed. He looked down at himself, his eyes scanning Ian’s hoodie that he was wearing, and to his feet, and then back up to Ian again. 

“You can’t keep doing this, man,” Mickey suddenly choked out. 

“Doing what?”

“Trying to…” he sighed. “Trying to be nice to me. Pretending I’m different and that I’ve changed and that I’m not the same sack of shit I always was. You don’t like me, you don’t want to be around me, you’ve gotta stop,” Mickey said all at once. There was a shine in his eyes. “You have to leave me alone.”

“Mickey…”

“What? It’s fuckin true, it’s-,”

Ian took another step forward, shortening the distance between them again. “Mickey,” he said, his voice solid, despite the fact that he was shaking inside. “You can’t stop me. You aren’t going to change my mind. I can figure out for myself who I want to be around, alright? I don’t give a shit what you think about yourself, you’re not going to convince me that you’re a bad person.”

“Ian, for fuck sakes, what is this?” Mickey finally interrupted. He looked tired, and hurt.

Ian frowned, confused.

“Do you… are you…” Mickey pursed his lips, and it looked like it physically pained him to grind the words out. “Do you like, like me or somethin’?” 

Ian felt the colour drain from his face. His stomach dropped, and he felt almost numb, but not from the cold.

“So what if I do?” he asked, trying not to let his face show that he was terrified. “What would you do about it, huh? Beat the shit out of me? I don’t think so.”

Mickey was silent. He stared at him, breathing heavily, his eyes glossy, his face bright red. He was giving Ian that look, that stupid fucking look, that look that Ian still couldn’t read and was starting to hate. His eyes were locked on to him, unwavering. For a second, Ian wondered if he was going to swing the bat, and he actually considered running.

Then, Mickey did the last thing that Ian expected. He kissed him.

For a split second, Ian was frozen. It took a moment for his brain to catch up with what was happening, but when it did, he immediately grabbed the back of Mickey’s head and ran his fingers into his hair. His other hand slid around his waist, pulling him closer. They were tangled together, their mouths crashing into one another, and they stumbled as they desperately tried to hold on to each other. Ian was afraid to break this kiss. He was afraid that it would all disappear around him, that it would be a dream, that Mickey would either punch him in the face or take off in the opposite direction as fast as he could.

Finally, though, Mickey pulled away, and they were left standing face-to-face, panting. 

“Mickey…” Ian breathed. He wasn’t even sure what he would say, Mickey’s name was the only word his brain could seem to come up with. Mickey. Mickey had kissed him.

Mickey shook his head. “Shut up.”

“Mickey,” Ian closed the tiny gap between them, and he could see the other man flinch slightly. “Coffee.”

“Don’t want a fucking coffee,” Mickey mumbled in defeat.

“Don’t care,” Ian replied, giving him a light shove in the direction of the street. “Let’s go.”

-:-

In the end, it hadn’t been that hard to get Mickey to Patsy’s. Ian had thought that maybe he would resist, or that he would take off back to his house, but he had actually been quiet, and surprisingly un-Mickey-like for the entire walk to the diner. He seemed numb, and Ian was guiding him through the motions to drag him there.

By the time they stepped into the restaurant Ian’s skin had begun to tingle from the cold. The warmth of the dining room washed over him and he sighed in relief, leading Mickey to his favourite booth. They sat down across from one another.

The tired-looking waitress swung by and dropped two menus between them. “Anything to drink?” she asked.

“Two coffees,” Ian answered, giving a weak smile.

She came back a moment later with two mugs and filled them with vaguely burnt-smelling coffee that had probably been sitting in the pot all night. Ian grabbed a couple of creamers and dumped them in, then added a spoonful of sugar to make it palatable. He stirred it and looked up at Mickey, who was staring straight ahead.

Ian took a sip. The silence hung around them, but eventually he spoke. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

Mickey glanced up, still silent, but seemingly surprised.

“I mean, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry that it happened, though.”

Mickey sucked in a breath, then finally picked up his black coffee and took a sip. In the fluorescent light, Ian could see that his eyes were bloodshot from alcohol and sleep deprivation, and maybe even some tears, he didn’t know. He could see his knuckles wrapped around the handle of the mug - they were bruised and scraped. 

“My dad just keeps fuckin’ us over from the grave, man,” Mickey said, his voice weary, gravelly.

“Yeah…” Ian answered quietly. “Family can do that to you sometimes.”

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot,” Mickey grumbled. He stared out the window into the street. A car went by, it’s headlights bobbing when it hit a pothole. “I’m surprised he lasted more than a day in there alone.”

Ian nodded, but didn’t say anything. He sensed that there was more that Mickey wanted to add.

“My dad told me I had to stay in the game before he died. He told me they were too stupid to go it on their own. I knew he was right. Fuckin’ bastard just always had to be right…”

“It wasn’t your job,” Ian said, fixing his gaze on him.

“Yes, it fucking was,” Mickey retaliated. “It was. He knew it, I knew it, I just… I couldn’t do it anymore, you know? I was done, and maybe that was… fuckin’ selfish, or whatever, but I just couldn’t.”

Ian swallowed, and his heart squeezed painfully. “I’m glad you got out,” he said earnestly.

Mickey’s eyebrows knit together, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek. His teeth were grinding together. He was unsure, uncomfortable. He took another long drink from his cup, downing half of his coffee.

“I’m glad you got out, I’m glad you make your art, I’m glad you’re not in jail. It wasn’t selfish. You’re allowed to be a person, Mickey.”

Ian watched as Mickey’s eyes snapped up to him, catching his own. There was something in his expression - something that looked like hope - and it made Ian want to reach across the table. It made Ian want to kiss him again, even though he knew he wasn’t allowed. He didn’t even want to think too hard about that, because he wasn’t sure he wanted answers about their kiss yet. He couldn’t handle it.

“I should go home,” Mickey said abruptly, dropping his gaze. “Mandy’s probably losin’ her shit.” He set down the mostly empty mug on the table between them, and stood up. 

“Okay, yeah,” Ian replied. “You’re good, then?”

Mickey nodded silently. He had turned to leave, but it was as if an invisible force had caught him, and forced him to look back at Ian before he left. “The, uh, coffee. It helped,” he said simply. With that, he headed for the door.

Ian watched wordlessly as Mickey slipped back into the street, stalking off in the direction of the Milkovich house. It wasn’t until he pulled this hood up over his head that Ian realized: he was still wearing his sweater.

-:-

Ian didn’t see Mickey much at all for a week.

He wanted to believe that it was mostly due to the fact that he had been studying a lot, and hadn’t taken as many shifts, and that Mickey had been busy working double time to get the mural done before it got too cold, or God forbid, it snowed. 

Ian knew, deep down, though, that it wasn’t just because of that. Mickey was definitely avoiding him, and in some ways, Ian was avoiding him back. They had seen one another in passing at The Freight Train, but they had just nodded in acknowledgement - nothing further. Mickey slipped out with his supplies long before Ian started his afternoon shifts, and packed up during the dinner rush when Ian was too busy to even say goodbye. The weekend had passed without incident, with Mickey painting for the better part of the day and disappearing before the sun would go down. 

Ian threw himself into his school work. Midterms were upon him, and he had done alright on Sensation and Perception, but the next Statistics test was following him like a dark cloud. He had been watching as many YouTube videos as he could stand in between FaceTime calls with Lip, but he still wasn’t sure he would be prepared enough. Still, he poured away at practice questions in his bedroom until his eyes were strained and his head was pounding, only stopping for coffee and smoke breaks. 

In truth, he was grateful for the distraction. If he stopped for too long, his mind started to wander into dangerous territory that became difficult to come back from. Ian’s eyes would drift to his phone - balanced on his bedside table, as if taunting him - and for the briefest of moments, he would consider texting Mickey. He thought about asking him how he was, or what he was up to, or just try to get a general progress update on the mural. Each time he would talk himself out of it, but it still sat in the back of his mind afterwards. 

Thinking about the kiss itself was… he wasn’t really sure what to think, really. It had been amazing, that much he knew for sure. It had felt big, and important, and now they were going to go on never acknowledging it, pretending it never happened. Ian knew that it had confirmed a lot of suspicions for him - Mickey liked guys, and maybe Mickey even liked him. A tiny, rational voice would then swoop in to remind him that maybe Mickey had just been vulnerable and hurting, and Ian had just been there . He was simply in the right place at the right time. Thinking about that for too long made his stomach churn and his limbs feel heavy, and that was why he had decided to avoid the topic altogether - just like Mickey was. 

Ian knew, though, that he was never going to be able to pretend that it never happened. The memory was seared into his brain, lighting up behind his eyelids whenever he tried to sleep at night.

On Tuesday, Ian took his second statistics test. He could tell right away that he had done better than the time before. The questions were much more familiar this time around, and some of them he knew the answer to right away. The terminology in the multiple choice section didn’t sound like a completely foreign language anymore, and there were only a couple of long answer problems that he was really stumped on.

He called Lip that afternoon to let him know, and while his brother was excited for him, he still was left with a certain sense of longing when he hung up the phone.

Ian stared at the screen, feeling oddly deflated. He wanted to tell Mickey.

-:-

When Ian came to work on Tuesday night, Mickey was balanced on the back corner booth, working on the painting in the dining room. He was adding details to the bridge and the ravine, very carefully working with a fine brush. 

Ian stopped to watch for a moment, shrugging his jacket off. Eventually, he wandered into the back room and clocked in, tying on his apron and checking his hair in the mirror again. He made his way back out to where Jo was standing and watching Mickey work from a distance.

“Hey,” Jo said with a warm smile. 

“Hey.”

“It’s looking good, isn’t it?” Jo nodded towards the mural on the wall.

Ian nodded in agreement. “Yeah.”

“He thinks he’ll be done this one today. He finished the train this morning,” Jo said excitedly.

Oh. Ian felt the breath leave his body. His shoulders sagged. He knew that Mickey had been working his ass off - he had to be close to done soon - but he hadn’t realized how soon. He hadn’t expected it to be at least until the end of the week at the earliest. He had repainted the entire front of the train, after all, and that was a big component. Ian had figured that would at least set him back by three or four days.

Yet, it was done. He would be done it all today. The days had blended into weeks and the month had slipped away. The warm fall had turned into a cold, almost-winter, and it was nearly the end of October. It had gone so much faster than he had ever expected.

Something about this twisted around inside Ian’s stomach, and he felt dejected as he moved through his shift. 

At the same time, he felt a bizarre urgency that he couldn’t quite place. Something was pressing at him - Mickey was leaving, and they had barely spoken in a week. Things were certainly left unsaid, but maybe it was better that way. Still, he had this feeling that Mickey was about to slip back into his own life and fade out of Ian’s as quickly as he had appeared just weeks ago. That couldn’t be it.

Mickey worked right through the dinner rush, which was distracting for Ian, to say the least. Ian was constantly glancing out of the corner of his eye to Mickey’s back, to his arms outstretched above him, leaving soft brush strokes across the wall. 

By the time that the customers began to trickle out and Ian was able to go for his break, Mickey had cleaned and organized his supplies in the hallway, and had almost finished stuffing them into a black duffel bag. He was focused, his head down, and Ian felt awkward standing behind him.

Ian was growing more and more nervous, but eventually he cleared his throat and said, “You’re done?”

Mickey didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“Smoke break?” Ian gave a half-smile, but his chest was aching and his heart was pounding against his ribcage.

Mickey stayed still for a moment, and just as Ian was considering heading off on his own, he stood up to face him. “Okay.”

The pair headed for the back door, walking in silence down the hallway. Ian pushed through the door and found the wedge to prop it open. He sat down on the bottom step, and Mickey sat above him at the top, waiting for Ian to perform their usual ritual. Ian lit both of their cigarettes and inhaled, leaning back against the railing post behind him. He blew a cloud of smoke into the darkness.

Mickey was wearing a light grey hoodie, black jeans, and work boots. Under the dim porch light that hung above the stairs, he looked almost dream-like, with a halo glowing around the edges of his dark hair that had been pushed back from his forehead. Ian’s gaze followed his icy eyes, the curve of his neck, the way his lips held the cigarette between them… he didn’t even bother to try to appear subtle. He let himself stare, as there was a distinct possibility he might not get to do it again.

“Did you see it yet?” Mickey asked, breathing out smoke when he spoke.

“What?”

“The mural. Outside.”

Ian shook his head. “No. Can we go look?” he asked.

Mickey gave a small shrug, but he nodded. 

Ian stood up, dusted himself off, and headed around the corner of the building up the alleyway. He could hear Mickey’s footsteps behind him, following him. Ian’s excitement built as he got closer, and when he got in front of it, he took a few steps back to take it all in.

His first thought was that it was perfect. Everything about it had come together, the train exploding out of all of the different colours, the buildings, the boxcars and railway tracks behind it. The more he looked, the more he found. The pieces all seemed to fit together seamlessly, with one element blending into another with little effort. Although the finished product was perfect , Ian thought vaguely to himself that every stage had been perfect, every trial and error, every version of it. They had all been Mickey’s, and they had all been perfect. This, though, was what Mickey had seen in his head. He remembered him saying that it had to be exactly how he pictured it in his mind, or he wouldn’t stop. This was what he saw when he looked at the bare wall for the first time. When Ian had looked at it, he had seen bricks, and yet somehow Mickey had seen all of this. 

“Wow,” Ian breathed, suddenly becoming aware that he hadn’t said anything yet. 

“Yeah?” Mickey pressed.

“Yeah. It’s awesome.”

Mickey smiled. Ian instantly smiled back - it was contagious - and he felt overwhelmed by it all. The mural was exactly what it needed to be, and Mickey was smiling at him, and it was just… beautiful. It was one of the first genuine, proud smiles he had seen from Mickey, and Ian wondered if there was a way he could make it last forever. 

“You’re in it, you know,” Mickey said, his eyes darting between Ian and the wall. He scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly, and took a drag from his cigarette.

“I am?” Ian asked in disbelief.

Mickey nodded, and pointed to one of the buildings that made up the kaleidoscope of a background.

“That one,” he said, taking a step closer, “is The Freight Train, before the mural.” He pointed to the tiny side door that was painted on to the building, and Ian realized that when you squinted and looked closely enough, there was a tiny redheaded man leaning against the side of it, holding a microscopic cigarette in his hand.

“I’m smoking?” Ian laughed, a grin spreading across his face.

“I like to keep my pieces true to life,” Mickey replied.

Ian’s smile grew even wider. His chest was tight, and it was almost excruciating how happy he felt. Mickey had painted him. Sure, he was only a couple of inches tall, and almost no one would ever notice him there, but he was there. He was part of Mickey’s perfect picture, the vision in his head. He had painted him into a piece that had mattered to him, and Ian couldn’t take his eyes off of the tiny version of him that was immortalized on the bricks.

 There he was.

Fuck it , Ian thought to himself, and in that moment he threw all caution to the wind. He turned and closed the space between him and Mickey, throwing his cigarette to the ground. He grabbed Mickey’s face between his two hands. Mickey took in a sharp breath of air, dropping his own half-finished smoke on the pavement, and reached his hands up behind Ian’s neck naturally as he melted into his kiss.

This kiss was less desperate than their first. It was much more tender than the last, softer, sweeter. It was a kiss that said thank-you, that said it’s okay , that said don’t go. It was a kiss that anchored them in time, the world around them fading into the fog that rolled off of Lake Michigan. 

When they finally pulled apart, Ian immediately grabbed Mickey’s arm. “Stay,” he whispered, his voice rough.

“I…”

“Stay. I’m off in another hour. Do something with me after. Come home with me, or I’ll go home with you, just… don’t go.”

Mickey opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but finally, he nodded. “Okay,” he said. 

-:-

Mickey spent the rest of the night sitting at the bar, with Jo offering free drinks and sitting beside him, rattling on for hours about how excited she was for the new art, and how great it looked, and how she couldn’t wait to finally unveil it’s finished form on their Instagram page. This made Mickey curl his nose up, but he tried to hide it in front of her, much to Ian’s amusement. 

Ian poured the drinks and divided his attention between them and the odd customer that made their way in, but it was an otherwise quiet Tuesday evening. Eventually, Jo decided to let Ian go early, opting to close up by herself. 

In the end, they decided to go back to Ian’s. Ian wasn’t sure who was going to be home - but it was closer, and Mickey was pretty sure that Mandy had her boyfriend over for the night. The walk over was quiet and peaceful, and by the time they got to the Gallagher home and climbed the stairs, Ian had begun to wonder if he would even be able to stay awake much longer.

Mickey was still carrying his duffel bag of paint supplies, which he shoved into the safety of Ian’s closet. He stood up and looked around the room. He approached Ian’s bed, which was still strewn with study supplies from earlier in the day. He picked one of the statistics books and pulled a face. 

“Statistics for dummies?” Mickey read the cover aloud.

Ian sat down on the edge of his bed, toeing his shoes off. “Yeah. That was the midterm I bombed a couple of weeks ago. We had our second test today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I think I did really well,” Ian added. “A lot better than last time.”

Mickey nodded, dropping the book down onto Ian’s desk by the foot of his bed. 

There was a pause, and for a moment the two stared at one another, both hanging on and waiting for each other’s next move. Ian wasn’t really sure who reached for the other first, but Ian had grabbed a fistful of Mickey’s shirt, pulling him down on top of him, and into another sloppy kiss. 

He pushed himself back to the head of his bed, and paused to let Mickey pull his boots off, crawling into the shitty single bed with him.

“Sorry there’s not a lot of room,” Ian mumbled. He reached over and turned out the lamp, keeping one hand on Mickey, pulling him in closer. 

Ian yanked his own t-shirt over his head - cringing at the fact that it still smelled like coffee and french fries - and slid out of his jeans and kicked off his socks until he was left in nothing but his dark green boxers. Mickey had peeled his own hoodie off at the same time, and balled up his jeans and thrown them across Ian.

They ended up a jumble of limbs, connected by their lips, both of them fighting for the upper hand. In between this, though, were pauses where the kiss became so sickeningly soft Ian thought he might lose his mind.

Suddenly, Mickey paused. “I’ve never…” he mumbled against Ian’s lips, and his voice sounded smaller than Ian can ever remember.

“It’s okay,” Ian reassured, capturing him in another kiss, strong and all-encompassing at first, but shifting into something more affectionate, something kinder.

Mickey seemed to shiver against him, and when Ian caught his wrist in his hand, he could tell that he was nearly shaking. It was strange, to even imagine Mickey so nervous. Although he could barely see him in the dark, Ian could make out the glint in his eyes, the way he looked at him, tiptoeing on the border between hopeful and terrified. It was a gentle reminder to Ian that they both had no idea what they were doing, and that they both were scared shitless. In that moment, he cupped Mickey’s jaw in his hand, holding him steady and reassuring him without saying a word at all. 

-:-

When Ian woke up he was wildly uncomfortable. His neck was bent in an unnatural crook, his arm was asleep, he was too hot, and something was blaring next to his ear. The sound pulled him from his slumber. It took a moment for reality to wash over him like a wave - he was sleeping next to Mickey, he and Mickey had slept together , he was cuddling with Mickey (although they didn’t have much of a choice in his bed), and… his fucking phone was ringing at six in the morning. 

For fuck sakes, Ian thought to himself, picking up the phone and squinting against the light from the screen. He was getting really sick of people calling him every time he tried to get a good night’s rest.

All at once, his annoyance was replaced by confusion, and a rush of anxiety when he read the name JO (WORK) at the top of his screen. 

“Can you shut that the fuck up?” Mickey mumbled.

Ian pressed accept. “Hello?”

“Oh, Ian,” he heard Jo on the other line, her voice laced with sadness, regret, and a million other emotions Ian couldn’t quite comprehend with his half-asleep brain. 

“Jo?”

Ian felt Mickey stir beside him, rolling over and lifting his head.

“Ian, I’m so sorry to wake you up,” she said. “I just had to call everyone… I’m sorry, I… I’m trying to… maybe you should come down here,” Jo choked out.

It sounded like she was stifling a sob, and Ian’s guts twisted with worry. “What’s wrong?”

Jo quieted for a moment, cleared her throat, and attempted to collect herself. Ian sat up straight, shifting from underneath the weight of one of Mickey’s limbs.

The silence was deafening.

“The restaurant,” Jo managed. “It’s on fire.”

-:-

It took Mickey and Ian all of five minutes to get dressed, get out the door, and get halfway to The Freight Train. They could hear the far-off wail of sirens in the distance, and it made Ian’s stomach drop. They were barely down the street when they could smell and taste the smoke that was billowing towards them in the wind. Ian spotted the orange glow in the sky.

When they finally got within sight of the building, Ian thought he might throw up. Enormous flames shot into the air from the top floor, burning through the ceilings and escaping through the shattered windows. The heat that came off of it was nearly unbearable, and they had to stand on the other side of the street with the crowd of onlookers that had come to witness the destruction first-hand. 

Although the brick structure was somewhat maintaining its shape, the sides had become charred with smoke, and the wall that faced the alleyway had begun to collapse in on itself. The adjacent building had begun to take on some of the damage, and the firefighters were desperately spraying it down in an attempt to protect it.

Ian’s eyes were fixed to the flames swelling out of the front door. He had just stood there earlier that day, he had just walked through that door. He had been so happy, coming through that door. He was just at work.

He was still focused on that particular thought when Jo and Eli appeared - seemingly out of nowhere - and Jo wrapped him into one of her warm hugs. Ian hugged back and he reached out to pull Eli in as well. 

“I’m so sorry,” Ian said, trying to hold back his emotions. It was their restaurant.

“We’re sorry too,” Jo replied, and wiped at her tears clumsily with her sweater sleeve. “It was your job.”

“There will be other jobs,” Ian reassured them, although it felt like a lie as he said it. “As long as everyone got out okay.”

“Yeah, no, there were no injuries…” Eli trailed off, his eyes following a mushroom cloud of smoke. “But…”

“Yeah,” Ian filled in. 

Eli and Jo eventually drifted off into the crowd, as other neighbours and staff members found them and pulled them into a comforting embrace. Ian couldn’t tear his eyes away as another piece of the front wall fell in, pulling more and more bricks into the pile of rubble below. The firefighters dashed around on the sidewalk as they pulled hoses in every direction and barked orders at one another. It felt like pure chaos, and like many others, he couldn’t stop watching. For a moment, he had almost forgotten that Mickey was beside him.

“Fuck,” Mickey’s voice cracked, and Ian glanced over at him.

The wall that had held the mural just hours before was nearly halfway collapsed, and the remaining bricks were being charred as the paint burnt off of them. Mickey stood, stunned, and Ian realized that he was quite literally watching his work collapse before his very eyes.

He wasn’t sure if anything he could say would be much help, and instead, he yanked Mickey into his side, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. He thought that Mickey might pull back - they were in public after all - but he didn’t even seem to care. He stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy. Reflected in his pupils were the sparks that erupted from the top of the building, littering the sky, burning up before they could reach the atmosphere.

“Mickey, we don’t have to stay here,” Ian whispered to him.

Mickey stayed, unmoving, his feet cemented to the ground. 

Ian sighed, and gave him just enough of a tug to get him moving. “Come on.”

The cold set in the farther away from the fire they got. Ian could feel the early morning air hitting his face where the glow of the fire had warmed it before, and it was sobering. Mickey walked alongside him wordlessly, but there was something building inside of him. They were only halfway to Gallagher’s when the dams broke.

“Fuck!” Mickey finally screamed, loud enough to awaken a barking dog in a nearby yard. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Ian wasn’t sure what to say, and he opened his mouth to talk, but suddenly Mickey was looking at him desperately, nearly laughing.

“What the fuck?” Mickey’s voice was becoming raw. He ran his hands through his hair. His eyes were wild, frantically searching Ian, who had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “It’s gone! It was fuckin’ finished today and now the place burns to ground? What a fuckin’ kick in the goddamned balls!”

He started back up the road towards Ian’s house, swearing to himself and shouting, occasionally picking up a stray bottle or rock to whip with all of his force. 

Ian walked silently behind him. It felt like it was better for him to just let Mickey get it out of his system, rather than try to comfort him. Besides, what could he even say? It sucked . He had just lost his job - the only job he had ever really liked. Mickey had worked for weeks. He had been really proud of his final product, he had been excited for people to see it, and then it was gone in a fury of sparks and ash. He had painted Ian, he was going to be there forever. It was going to be a testament to… whatever this was. It was a really, really good painting, and it had fallen out of existence and crumbled to the ground.

Mickey finally ran out of breath and out of words when they got to the Gallagher’s front yard. There was a blue glow as the beginnings of dawn began to take over the night, and the street lights were beginning to flicker out. Mickey dropped himself down on their front step.

Ian stood in front of him. The all-familiar twist in his stomach came, and he watched as Mickey dropped his head into his hands, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

“Mickey.” Twist.

Mickey was quiet, but he looked up.

“You were right.” Squeeze.

“What?”

“What you said - the other night. You were right. I like you.”

The look . Mickey’s unreadable, unbreakable look. He stared at Ian for a moment, as if trying to read him. The silence dragged on, and Ian wondered if maybe he had made a treacherous mistake, and if he had made everything worse. Maybe now wasn’t the time for confessions, maybe he should have waited until they were inside, until they had recovered from the shock and loss of the morning.

Then, Mickey answered him.

“I… like you,” Mickey’s voice was low, but there was no mistaking he said it. He said it.

Ian came closer still, and reached out to pull Mickey up from the step. Mickey took his hand and let himself stand, but he somehow looked more fragile than Ian ever remembered. He was Mickey - he was himself, an artist, smart, interesting, still smoking cigarettes, and still kind of an asshole. He was beautiful in all the ways that Ian never expected, and some of the ways he did. He held a paintbrush in a million different positions and Ian had somehow managed to memorize them all in the past month, committing them to memory, taking in the way his body had stretched and folded to get every detail right - just like how he saw it.

When Ian kissed him, all he saw behind his eyes was a tiny, one-inch tall Ian Gallagher - smoking, leaning against the wall, and painted on the wall of the Freight Train in his mind forever.