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As Mickey limped home from the Alibi, he tried to come to terms with the absolute shit-show that just occurred. His head throbbed, and the crusted blood on his temple felt heavy on his skin. Fogginess clouded his brain. He would be lucky if he wasn’t concussed. Still, he tried to sort through the jumbled memories of his coming out story for the ages.
Ian had almost left him. Ugh, it made his stomach churn with anxiety thinking about it. He had just gotten the stupid ginger back, and he wasn’t about to lose him again. Even if it meant he had to do something that terrified him. Lucky for Ian, Mickey was afraid of losing him more than any beating Terry could dish out. That wasn’t always the case, but Mickey would be fucked if he let Ian go again.
Then he did it. He finally grew a pair and announced it to the whole bar. His relatives, his dad, his bitch of a wife. For one blissful second, he could almost believe no one cared. The music played, and the chatter resumed. It was as if the secret he ruined his life to hide wasn’t that important.
Then Terry happened.
Thinking about the disgust etched on his father’s face made Mickey shiver but not from the cold. That sick, shameful feeling he knew all too well returned. The kind of feeling that made him want to take the words back, push Ian away and bang some skanky girl so he could pretend he wasn’t some fucking queer. He was out now. Officially. Word spread fast around this neighbourhood; it was likely that everyone would know by tomorrow. Mickey Milkovich was a fag.
The reality of what he just did hit him hard then. He doubled over and vomited into the grass of someone’s lawn. Ian patted his back while Mickey spat and wiped his mouth. Fucking gross.
They continued hobbling to the Gallagher house, and Mickey looked up at its blue exterior. The lights were on inside, and he could see shadows moving about. The home radiated warmth; it had been a sanctuary to Mickey in the last weeks. However, he wasn’t afraid anymore. His bitch of a wife couldn’t boss him around, and his dad was back in the joint. He wanted to reclaim what was his, even if it was temporary.
“Gallagher,” He barked when Ian began shuffling up the stairs, “I-I’m going home” He managed to stutter out quietly. He felt weak tonight. The feeling made him uncomfortable, but Mickey didn’t have the energy to play up his usual façade. Ian looked at him with wide eyes. He looked almost hurt. He began to speak, “Oh, I- uh ok, you want me to stay here tonight?”
Mickey mentally kicked himself for not making the invitation more obvious, but also, how dumb was that fucking ginger? He had just risked his life to come out for him, and he thought Mickey didn’t want to spend every goddamn second with him? He took a deep breath; it calmed his splitting headache minutely. Tattooed fingers scratched absent-mindedly at his eyebrow,
“Come with me,” Mickey said with finality. Relief swept across Ian’s face. So, they walked. Ian held his ribs and rambled. Mickey didn’t feel like talking. If he was honest, he felt overwhelmed. The emotions swarming through his body made the waves of pain in his skull deepen. A heavy throb that matched his heartbeat. He welcomed the pain with open arms. The pain was real; he could pinpoint it and describe it. It had always been something easily comprehendible. The feelings, however, were a different ball game. Mickey heard Ian’s talking halter. He looked down, and Mickey realised he had grabbed the redhead’s hand. Oh, we can do that now.
Ian’s thumb traced circles along Mickey’s bruised skin, and it sent tingles throughout Mickey’s body. He felt every nerve alight at the innocent gesture, his small calloused hands against Ian’s larger, smooth ones. It took him out of his head long enough to realise they had made it to his house.
They walked into the dark interior, Mickey called out, confirming that no one was home yet. Good. He didn’t want to be with anyone but Ian right now. He pulled two beers out from the fridge and collapsed down onto a chair at the kitchen table. Wincing, he reached for some painkillers. This headache was making him homicidal.
“You all right?” Ian asked, snatching a few pills for himself. Mickey mulled the question over in his head. No, was the complicated answer. He felt exposed and vulnerable. Hiding that part of himself had always taken up so much room in his brain. He didn’t know who he was without that secret weighing down his thoughts constantly. Now it was out he felt, free? Relief? Maybe even elation? But it was counterbalanced with the usual dread and self-loathing he felt when he put any real thought into his sexuality. He looked around the room, at that fucking couch and then at his beautiful boyfriend standing in front of him. Ian was looking at him softly. He looked proud. Mickey knew then he had made the right decision.
“Sore,” he answered instead, because the physical pain was still at the forefront of his mind, regardless of his inner turmoil, “tired” he followed up with, after taking a sip of his beer. Ian just nodded, and a look of resolve passed over his features.
“C’mere,” Ian said, almost reverently, like he could sense Mickey’s sensitive mental state. He held out his large palm, and Mickey placed his smaller hand in his. Ian led him to the bathroom. He began to strip Mickey down. He pulled his bloodied shirt up cautiously, but it didn’t stop Mickey from grimacing in pain. Ian knelt to unbuckle his belt and pull down his pants. The sight of Ian on his knees with Mickey’s belt buckle between his fingers would usually lead to something else, but there was nothing sexual about the act. Mickey didn’t feel exposed under Ian’s concerned gaze; he felt cared for. Mickey went about disrobing Ian, reflecting the innocent care back at his boyfriend with ease.
They took in each other’s bodies under the harsh white light. Mickey’s brow creased at the dark bruises covering Ian’s ribs. The blood on his face covered the freckles that Mickey loved so much. Ian gently carded his fingers through Mickey’s matted hair, brushing over the sensitive spot on the back of his head. Mickey didn’t try to hide the whimper that left his lips, both from pain and Ian’s tenderness. If he had felt overwhelmed before, then this type of intimacy was his tipping point. The air was thick with something between them, but Mickey couldn’t articulate what it was.
Love?
Mickey cleared his throat and turned the water on, the old pipes screamed with effort, but soon enough, steaming water was spilling out of the showerhead. Mickey thanked a higher power that someone had paid the gas bill, meaning they could revel in its warmth. The hot spray poured over his body, creating a violent eruption of goosebumps as his skin adjusted to the temperature change. The water stung at his cuts, and he bit his tongue against the pain. Ian got in behind him, and together they turned the water a rust colour as they rinsed their bodies clean.
Mickey felt Ian’s hands gently caress his scalp. His fingers traced through his hair, separating the tangles and washing out the blood. It felt good. So, so good. Mickey wished he could stay in this moment forever. He closed his eyes and let himself enter a world where nothing existed before or after this second in time. Just Ian’s hands in his hair, his larger body pressed into his back, making him feel safe in the warm humidity of the shower cubicle. Completely exposed, utterly broken, yet finally whole.
He heard a loud sob. He tasted salt on his tongue, then jolted in shock when he realised the cry had come from his own lips. The tears hurt his head, but he couldn’t stop them. He was glad Ian couldn’t see his face. The ginger just continued his tender ministrations on his scalp, an occasional hand dropping down to rub his shoulders which were shaking with the heavy force of his crying.
He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he was crying like a bitch in his shower. It could be the sudden clearness in his chest as if the heavy boot that had been pressing him down into the ground had mercifully lifted. Maybe it was the pain, both emotional and physical, of his father’s brutal rejection. He knew it was coming, but that didn’t stop his heart from stinging just as much as his face.
He started to calm down, the ugly snotty cries receding to a light stream of tears running along his red cheeks. Ian gently turned him around to face him. He didn’t make a fuss about the crying, just used a rag to gently wipe the last of the hardened blood from the gashes on his face. Ian had already cleaned himself up, and Mickey stared at his pale skin, littered with bruises to match the constellations of freckles. Ian’s green eyes betrayed his determination to ensure the pain that could be erased from tonight would be. Mickey couldn’t hold back any longer.
He pulled Ian down for a long, gentle kiss. No tongue, just torn lips against torn lips. He pressed in firmly and wished he could communicate how he was feeling through this gesture, hoping his lips could translate his emotions to Ian more articulately than words ever could. He had never had his face touched so tenderly or his feelings handled with such care. Never felt this loved. The contrast of Ian’s feather-light fingertips tracing the same spots his father’s fist had brutally broken not hours before made his head spin.
They stared at each other, and Mickey just let Ian examine his face with his eyes, hands and lips.
The water suddenly went cold, causing both the boys to jump out of the icy spray. Mickey swore loudly, shocked and annoyed over the interruption. Ian laughed a beautiful sound at his reaction and pulled Mickey into him. The water on their wet bodies mixed in the cool air, illuminated by the pale light. Mickey felt Ian’s hand tracing up his sides, and he looked up to study Gallagher’s face. They held eye contact for what felt like an eternity before Ian’s face fell, a crease in his brow formed, and Mickey wanted to wipe it away with his thumb. When Ian spoke, his voice came out timid.
“I’m sorry,” The sincere admission took Mickey aback.
“Fuck for?” Mickey asked, and Ian’s eyes turned from downtrodden to frustrated.
“You know what for Mick, I shouldn’t have done that” His exasperated words were laced with a pang of obvious guilt that mirrored the expression on his face. Mickey hated that look. He needed Ian smiling right now. He didn’t just get the beating of his life for Ian not to be happy.
“Hey man, it’s ok”, He reassured. Mickey was secretly grateful for the apology. Fuck Ian for making him come out and using their relationship against him. Fuck him for not letting him tell people on his own terms. He tried to stay mad, but the feeling came and went. The truth is if Ian hadn’t pushed him, Mickey could confidently say he would have never come out. As much as it pained him (literally), he knew it needed to happen. He couldn’t have gone on living the way he was without eventually blowing his brains out.
“It needed to happen”, he resolved, trying to communicate with Ian just how much he was thankful if a little annoyed for the push. His fingers gently traced the younger man’s clavicle pressing into the sculpting bones directly in front of him.
“Thank you”, Ian sighed, his eyes going red with a light film of moisture. Mickey rolled his eyes, very little heat behind the action. Ian grabbed under his chin, tilting his head up. He had no choice but to submit to Ian’s intense gaze.
“I mean it, Mickey, thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah, all right” It came out softer than he intended. Ian’s lips crashed into his once more, and they stayed kissing, naked in the cold bathroom until they were shivering, and hypothermia became a real possibility.
As they shuffled back into the bedroom, Mickey started to feel it. When Ian’s tongue lapped gently along his body, he felt it. When they giggled through gasps of pain, their injuries still apparent, he felt it. When they rocked together, their bodies so in sync, he felt it. When he heard Ian’s breaths stutter and felt his own eyes roll back into his head, he felt it. When they caught their breaths, panting into each other’s mouths and drinking up each other’s attention, Mickey felt it.
Mickey loved him. He loved him so fucking much.