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The Gallagher’s swore they had been in Chicago before the city was even built. Depending on who was asked, oftentimes a Gallagher or two would swear they were in Illinois before the Irish Famine could even hit, that the Gallagher’s knew something bad was happening before the rest of the country had any sense. The later generations of Gallagher’s called bullshit on their ancestors' apparent psychic instinct but it was undeniable their family had roots in the city that grew deeper than most’s.
For almost as long as the Gallagher’s ran the Southside, so did the Milkovich’s. The two lineages intertwined throughout all of history. Where one was the other was soon to follow. They tended to not get along particularly well. It was always a pissing contest between the two families. Who had the most power. Who had the most influence. Which bloodline was the kings and queens of their neighbourhood. Milkovich and Gallagher’s would always give a side-eye when they saw the other tagging an old ally or shotgunning in the middle of the park but they tended to stick to themselves mostly.
With these close proximities came the obvious feuds and even more surprising close relationships.
Somehow, someway, against all the odds stacked against them Mickey and Ian had managed to foster and grow a beautiful relationship that eventually bloomed into a promise to be by one another for the rest of time. As husband and husband.
A lifelong standoff of families now merged into one.
Frank stood outside the Polish Doll, throwing rice at the newlyweds, praying deeply that he was getting that car back but most of all trying to not give in to the stingy hickies bruised on his skin.
He watched as his son- nephew, whatever the fuck the ginger was in relation to him drive the car out of the villa parking lot. Liam was once again at his side as he relented the new gossip he had learned about Rudy and his homoerotic pron stash that Frank honestly thought was an impressive feat.
He wasn’t really thinking about much other than what his next drink was going to be when Liam was speaking again. Voice with the clarity of an angle, striking him straight through the chest.
“Aren’t all homophobes gay?”
His youngest -and only good one in his humbled opinion- son’s voice rang in his ear.
Frank's face dropped. He felt his pulse quicken, his grip around the cold glass of scotch he held in his hand almost completely loosened.
Suddenly it made sense to Frank why he was crying in the middle of the reception. So overcome with emotions and unable to keep his eyes from leaking tears down his flushed cheeks. He wasn’t crying because he was proud or significantly happy about the matrimony. He was crying because of Terry.
Back when they were both boys, the summer right before Frank had gone off to university they spent every second by one another’s side never straying far apart.
They ran the Southside. Got all the drugs they could ingest, made their own beer in Frank’s shitty basement. They’d spent their nights alone in abandoned buildings and old soccer fields. Anything to be in one another’s company. Laughing, dancing, getting high and picking on the other neighbourhood kids. Their relationship, good or bad or something in between, was never lacking passion. Beat the shit out of one another, fucked harder than the punches they could throw.
Their months-long rapid summer love affair was seeming to be chalked up to true love. There wasn’t much in their way. A college campus an hour away and Terry’s beard girlfriend, Laura were the only minor obstacles in their treacherous ravishing devotion. That and Frank’s fear.
It was the hottest day of summer as Frank stood outside the Milkovich home’s front porch. Terry was sitting on the front step, drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette. Frank couldn’t help but note how beautiful the boy looked, glistening in sweat, a bandana splayed across his forehead making his wisps of brown hair stand at attention. The beauty of the sight was almost enough to stop Frank from carrying out his plan. He swallowed hard, going a little dizzy from the pressure. It needed to be done.
He was afraid that his love for Terry was too much. All consuming. A black hole destined to sweep him up and never let him go. So he nervously rambled through a breakup, staring down at the shoes Terry had stolen from him. Frank cleared his throat, choking back tears. He finally looked up to see his beloved. Or now ex-beloved he supposed.
He was met with sad, stormy blue eyes that made him want to crawl into the Earth and die for hurting the boy.
“Fuck you, Frankie!” Terry spit out, running back into his house. Frank looked down at the cement, wet with Terry’s metaphorical tears, and the physical beer that he spilt getting up. Frank wiped his wet eyes, remaining himself that maybe one day if either were brave enough, they would soon be in one another’s embrace again. Stay there forever.
That dream was then immediately crushed when Terry ran back out with a rifle trying to shoot the dirty blonde dead.
For years, that was the last he had heard from the Milkovich boy. When Frank finally moved back to the Southside, with a wife and baby girl to account for, he found out Terry had his own family now. Oh, and he was a Nazi. Frank had just cut his hair after the breakup and started doing cocaine, he thought Terry’s Nazihood was a little dramatic.
Frank stifled when he realised Liam’s eyes were still on him.
“Probably so son” He bit the inside of his cheek. He knew his eyes went sad, and tried his hardest to brush aside those feelings that never got quite resolved all those years ago. He swallowed hard, hand gripping his glass.
Maybe in another life, it would have worked out . ‘Not this one though’, Frank reminded himself. “Probably so”