Work Text:
“Looks like it’s gonna rain,” Ian says, looking outside worriedly. It’s only four in the afternoon, and it’s dark already, the sun hidden behind dark grey clouds and the swirling dust. Ian can't even make out where the clouds end and the ashen sky begins. A plastic bag floats by the door, buoyed up by a dusty gust of wind, and latches onto the handle.
“Dust storm,” Mickey replies, not looking up from the magazine he’s reading. Or trying to, anyway- Ian keeps interrupting him every two minutes, so he hasn’t been making much progress.
“Think we should lock up and go back home?” Ian asks, biting his lip. Mickey doesn’t know when he developed the habit, but over the past few weeks, Ian’s been biting his lips far too often for Mickey’s liking. As if he needs to have his attention drawn to them any more often.
“You scared of a little rain?” Mickey asks, eyebrows raised and smirk firmly in place.
“You could just say no, like a normal person,” Ian huffs, shaking his head. He gets up and pushes the door open, only to get a cloud of dust in his eyes as the door slams shut of its own volition.
“Doesn’t seem like we can go back even if we want to,” Ian says, rubbing his eyes regretfully. He opens one eye wide and tries to get a speck of dust out by poking and prodding at the lower rim, only to end up with an eyelash on his finger instead.
“Make a wish,” Mickey prompts, grinning.
“Shut up, asshole,” Ian says, grinning back at him.
(He closes his eyes and blows the eyelash off his finger anyway. Mickey pretends he didn’t see, and bites his cheek to keep himself from smiling.)
Thud. Mickey and Ian both immediately turn to look outside at the sudden noise, only to find the skinny, weak tree that’s been outside the shop since Ian took up the job three years ago toppled over in front of the door. It’s almost too dark to even see anything outside by now.
“I liked that tree,” Ian pouts. Mickey just ignores him.
The wind’s been gaining intensity all this while, and now it’s a proper storm outside, the gale howling as dry leaves and pieces of trash float around, flitting around the nexus of dust that’s suddenly everywhere. Ian’s face falls as he looks outside- he’s the one who’s going to have to clean up the windows tomorrow.
As they look outside, rain starts to fall, slowly at first, but in two minutes flat it’s a downpour, chains of raindrops following each other in diagonal lines, hitting the pavement in a steady rhythm.
Suddenly, they’re plunged into darkness as the lights go out, so Mickey can only see Ian’s silhouette from his memory. “Fuck,” Ian breathes out in the sudden stillness, his whisper nearly inaudible over the sound of the rain.
“Oh, great,” Mickey huffs out. His eyes are adjusting to the dark, so he can see Ian’s face in the slight light coming from outside, in whatever’s remaining of the afternoon sunlight. He can see Ian smiling slightly. He can only hope it’s an ironic smile. Though knowing Ian, it’s probably happiness at getting the chance to witness a storm with Mickey. He probably thinks being stuck in the store for who knows how long is fucking romantic.
“The fuck you smiling at?” Mickey snaps at Ian.
“Nothing,” Ian replies too quickly, still smiling at Mickey.
Mickey sighs. He can just tell it’s going to be a long day.
-x-
"She turned around to face the spot where the old lady's body had been," Ian says, his voice deep and throaty. He takes a breath, probably to build up suspense or some shit, but his attempts at trying to tell Mickey a horror story are cut short by the room being plunged into darkness once again. It's a testimony to his horrible storytelling skills that neither of them chalk it up to paranormal activity, or even so much as gasp. Mickey has a vague feeling that they're supposed to be scared shitless at this point, but even Ian pressing the phone under his chin to make the shadows on his face stand out in sharp contrast didn't do anything to help Ian's case- if you ask Mickey, it just made him look even more ridiculous.
“Oh shit,” Ian says, as his phone dies in his hands. Their last source of light, gone. Mickey’s phone died hours ago, and it’s not like they have flashlights just lying around. God forbid they do anything sensible like that.
Ian rubs his arms, shivering slightly, and inches closer to Mickey. Mickey smiles to himself. The idiot’s been trying to surreptitiously get closer to Mickey since the storm fucking started, and Mickey has to admit, he’s a little impressed by Ian’s determination. His arms are almost touching Mickey’s by now. Another few minutes, and he'll be pressed up against him.
Mickey gets up and stretches his legs gratefully. Two hours of being cooped up in the store with Ian and his endless babbling wasn't his idea of fun, but surprisingly, he isn't bored. It's still storming outside, staccato bursts of rainfall followed by periodic bursts of light as blue lightning strobes across the dark sky, lighting up the store for a few seconds. The streets are deserted, all the street lights fused ever since the power went out all that time ago, and Mickey's starting to think that they'll have to spend the night in the store.
"Where are you going?" Ian asks, looking up at Mickey through crestfallen eyes. All his progress, wiped out. No wonder he's pouting. (Mickey doesn't look. He doesn't see Ian pouting and he doesn't think it's cute. He doesn't.)
"You got any flashlights lying around?" Mickey asks. After all, what's the harm in trying?
Ian shakes his head no, but then he brightens. "No, but I have something better," Ian says, smiling wide. Mickey's eyes narrow in suspicion. He has the feeling he's going to regret asking Ian anything in a moment.
Ian gets up and moves to rummage around somewhere behind the counter. He emerges empty handed.
Mickey raises his eyebrows in a silent question.
Ian shakes his head, then gestures for Mickey to follow him into the back room. He opens one of the storage cupboards that Linda had built to store surplus supplies but that more or less ended up as a handy place to hide condoms and bottles of lube. Ian rummages around in the dark for something as Mickey stands and watches him, making no move to help. There's a thud as something falls to the ground, nearly landing on Mickey's feet, and then Ian exclaims suddenly. He picks up something and puts it in his pocket before Mickey can even see what it is.
"The fuck was that?" he asks, reaching out his hand to try and grab it from Ian's pocket.
"Nothing," Ian says and quickly thrusts something soft and fluffy into Mickey's outstretched hands, effectively blocking Mickey's move. It's a blanket, Mickey realizes.
"What do you want me to do with this?" Mickey asks, mystified. Even in the dark, Mickey can see Ian's eye roll.
"It's cold, Mick," he says, shivering for good measure.
"So?" Mickey asks. He knows he should probably put a stop to whatever Ian's planning now, before he loses his nerve or gives in to Ian and his fucking puppy dog eyes, but it is cold, and Mickey's only wearing a thin tank top.
"So," Ian says, "I don't wanna catch a cold. Now do you want me to spell it out for you?"
"If you think we're going to cuddle under a fucking blanket, then you need to get your head checked," Mickey snaps.
"No, I was thinking more along the lines of spreading out this blanket outside and pointing out constellations to each other," Ian smirks. Mickey doesn't really know when Ian stopped being scared shitless of Mickey Milkovich, neighbourhood thug, and started calling him out on his bullshit instead, but Mickey knows he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it one bit.
"I swear to God, Gallagher-" Mickey begins, but he's cut off by Ian placing a hand on his shoulder placatingly, his lips stretched wide.
"Calm down, Mick, we're not going to cuddle," Ian says.
"Fucking right we aren't," Mickey mumbles, following Ian out of the back room and into the store. Ian grabs a few packets of chips in one hand and two beers in the other, and sets them all down on the floor.
"We're going to make a blanket fort," Ian says, evil grin firmly in place, as a flash of lightning lights up his face in shades of blue and white for a moment.
"Fuck no," Mickey says. Really, he should've known. Ian and his twisted notions of romance. Mickey wouldn't even be surprised if he whipped out a few candles for an impromptu candlelight dinner next.
"There are two ways we can do this- either we cuddle under this blanket, or we make a blanket fort out of it," Ian says in a perfectly reasonable tone. Mickey doesn't let that fool him- he's certain evil masterminds talk in perfectly reasonable tones.
"Or we could freeze our asses off instead," Ian finishes. That seems like the safest option to Mickey. So of course, he doesn't choose it.
“How the fuck are you gonna make a blanket fort out of one fucking blanket?” Mickey asks, eyeing the thin, raggedy blanket sceptically.
“I grew up with three younger siblings. I know all about making blanket forts,” Ian says smugly. Mickey raises his eyebrows and claps slowly in mock-admiration.
“Shut up and help, asshole,” Ian smiles, shoving Mickey back with his elbows.
Ian picks up one corner of the blanket and moves to tie it to one of the shelves. Mickey takes up the other end to tie it up to the other side of the shelf. By the time he’s done securing the knot, Ian’s dropped his end of the blanket three times, and knocked over two boxes of chicken stock.
“Need some help, expert?” Mickey asks, grinning at Ian. Ian grumbles at him, but moves grudgingly away from the shelf.
Mickey ties up the other corner, throwing a triumphant smile at Ian when he’s done. Ian deliberately looks off to one side, refusing to make eye contact with Mickey and giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’s won.
Mickey steps back and survey their handiwork. It’s not much, just the blanket tied up to the shelf, and Mickey knows just looking at it that there won't be nearly enough space inside for both of them to fit comfortably (and that’s just an excuse for Ian to press his body next to Mickey’s). He’s not even sure how warm it’ll be, and all in all, it’s a pretty poor excuse for a blanket fort, but it’s something.
Mickey feels an odd sense of pride looking at it.
“Come on,” Mickey says, gesturing for Ian to follow as he lifts the blanket and sits down on the floor. He holds up the blanket as Ian ducks to enter, and sits down beside Mickey, his legs pressed up to Mickey’s, their arms touching. Mickey lets the blanket fall, so that it covers both of them, shielding them both from the rest of the store. Another bolt of lightning streaks across the dark sky, lighting up their tiny hideout, and throws up patterns against Ian’s pale skin as the geometrical shapes on the blanket are illuminated for a second.
“Nice, huh?” Mickey asks Ian, waggling his eyebrows at him. Ian raises his own eyebrows in surprise, as a wide smile blooms on his face.
“It’s great,” he says, grinning wide and knocking his knees with Mickey’s.
“Of course it is- I made it, bitch,” Mickey says, smirking. Ian’s eyebrows immediately furrow as he punches Mickey’s shoulder, whispering asshole under his breath. Mickey bursts into laughter, and Ian has to bite his cheek to stop himself from smiling.
“So do you still want flashlights?” Ian asks, suddenly, his lips stretching into an impish grin. Mickey doesn’t trust that smile.
“No?” Mickey ventures. The safe option. He can do it this time, at least.
“Good,” Ian says, his smile widening as he whips something out of his pocket.
“The fuck is that?” Mickey asks suspiciously, eyeing the box Ian’s holding.
“No,” Mickey says, eyes widening in horror, as he realizes what Ian’s holding.
“Candles,” Ian says simply, opening the box and taking out two long pink candles and a match from inside.
“We are not having a candle night dinner, Jesus, Ian,” Mickey says firmly.
“Oh come on, Mick! Technically it isn’t even dinner,” Ian says.
“No,” Mickey says, holding up a finger in warning as Ian starts to light up one of the candles. He does it anyway, the glow of the candle lighting up the tiny space, Ian’s face illuminated in the soft yellow light so Mickey can see his smile clearly.
“Put it out, Ian,” Mickey warns, trying to make a grab at the candle.
Ian stares at him, a silent challenge, as Mickey bristles, just about ready to knock the candle to the floor. They hold each others’ gazes for a few tense seconds, until finally Ian breaks away.
“Fine,” he says nonchalantly, blowing the candle out. For a moment, Mickey can't see anything, but then his eyes start adjusting to the dark again. He heaves a sigh of relief.
“You can go look for your own food,” Ian says, taking out a Snickers bar from his pocket and munching it slowly. Then he takes it out of his mouth and holds it up to Mickey’s face, waving it tantalisingly in front of his eyes. He puts it back in his mouth and bites down on it exaggeratedly.
“What are you, five?!” Mickey asks, exasperated. The effect is spoiled by the rumbling of his stomach.
Ian doesn’t say anything, just smirks at Mickey.
“This is the last Snickers we have, by the way,” Ian says nonchalantly, shrugging when Mickey looks at him with shock and outrage written all over his face.
Mickey stares at him for a moment, trying to gauge if he’s serious or not, until deciding that he can't possibly take a chance.
“Gimme that!” he says, making a wild grab at Ian’s hands. But Ian’s too quick for him- he’s already extended his hand upwards, holding the bar just slightly out of Mickey’s reach.
Mickey pulls at Ian’s arms, trying to bring them low enough to grab the bar out of his hands, but Ian doesn’t budge. Instead, he just breaks off a piece of the chocolate with his free hand and pops it into his mouth, smirking at Mickey.
Suddenly, Mickey shifts, hooking one leg over Ian’s, and in one motion, he’s straddling Ian, trying to gain traction on his arms as he tries to pull them down.
“Mffgm,” Ian mumbles out from where Mickey’s arm is pressed up against his mouth, and opens up his legs so Mickey’s sitting square in his lap, his legs on either side of Ian’s.
Suddenly, Ian flips Mickey over, so Mickey’s on his back against the hard shelf, and pins him down with his legs, taking a bite from the bar of chocolate slowly, smirking all the while. Most of the chocolate’s gone already, only a few bites remaining.
Mickey reaches out and grabs Ian’s t-shirt, pulling him down on top of him. Ian disbalances for a moment, and that’s enough for Mickey to wriggle out from under him.
Ian straightens up, trying to escape from Mickey and his death grip on Ian’s wrist, but Mickey’s holding him too tightly. Ian tries a badly-aimed jab at Mickey’s side, which only results in a sudden burst of laughter from Mickey.
Ian’s just trying to figure out which spot he’d hit by fluke, because he’d spent most of the summer trying to find Mickey’s secret tickle spot, and he can't believe he’s finally found it, but Mickey takes Ian’s momentary confusion to his own advantage and wrenches the bar of chocolate out from Ian’s hand.
He holds the chocolate up to his face, grinning triumphantly at Ian, and pushes whatever’s left of it hungrily into his mouth. The chocolate starts melting on his tongue and Mickey’s lips stretch into a smile of their own volition. He fucking loves Snickers.
“Fuck you,” Ian says, laughing at the blissful expression on Mickey’s face. He wriggles out of Mickey’s grip, and flashes him a grin as he picks up the pieces of the candle. He isn’t sure if Mickey intended to sit on the candle or not, but in any case, half the candle’s smashed now, the other half broken into countless pieces.
“Don’t mess with me, man,” Mickey says, the words coming out muffled as he tries to chew the huge piece of chocolate. Mickey’s starting to understand why it’s not advised to take on more than you can chew. Ian shakes his head at the idiot, but he’s smiling.
“You do realize I have an entire box of candles left?” Ian asks, eyebrows raised and cheeks dimpling.
If Mickey wasn’t currently struggling with the massive piece of chocolate he’d unwittingly shoved into his mouth, he’d groan.