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"What's up with you?" Ian suddenly asks as he zips up his jeans. It's another quiet night concealed by the safety of the dugouts. All of Chicago seems to sit still whenever they are here- the violence or misery of their realities effortlessly fade away on nights like these.
"Fuck you talkin' bout?" sniffs Mickey, who's too busy opening a tin of beer to look back at Ian. He swiftly swipes the beer from Mickey's hand (in spite of his protest) and takes a sip before he answers. "That is what I'm talking about." Ian states, gesturing towards Mickey's face.
Even with the glistening Moon sneaking through the cracks of the dugouts and bouncing down perfectly on Mickey's face in a way that Ian really can't help but notice, he can also clearly see how red his nose is, with the bags under his eyes just a little deeper than they normally are. "What you mean: 'that' ?! Got a problem with my face or summit all a sudden?" Demands Mickey, but there's the distinct lack of bite that was once behind his bark.
Ian isn't too sure when casual sex with Mickey became...whatever the hell it is meant to be now, but somewhere along the way it has gone from them fucking then awkwardly dispersing in silence to staying behind for hours to drink beer and chat about shit that nobody really cares about. It isn't like they go round holding hands or go out in public (aside from work), but it has still developed into something that Ian can't quite explain: something that makes his body feel all warm when he passes the Milkovich house or even thinks about Mickey.
Something that makes Ian asks what's going on when he notices Mickey sniffling a lot or something that makes Ian notice how Mickey is wearing a few extra layers.
"You got a cold?" He asks, handing the beer back to Mickey and leaning against the fence. Ian watches as Mickey takes a long drink and sets the beer down against the fence before turning to face him. "It's the middle of fucking winter in Chicago- everyone gets a cold! Why you care? Not like you can catch it from bumming." He exclaims, a hand through his hair. Ian tries his best not to roll his eyes, but his annoyance wins over. Not like Mickey notices- or minds- anyway.
"Just asking, jeez. Get some cold medicine off Mandy, your face is all red." Suggests Ian, pulling his jacket on. Mickey huffs and grumbles something that Ian can't hear but assumes its some form of profanity. "Milkoviches don't get fucking colds." Mickey defends, picking the beer back up and allowing Ian and drink before taking one of his own. Ian scoffs as he pulls a fag from his pocket. Mickey stops drinking to light it for him. "Mandy got sick last week with a cold! Probably passed it onto you." He counters, folding his arms as a puff of smoke slips past his lips. The flame only highlights Mickey's features more and suddenly Ian doesn't feel the cold bite of winter so much.
"I don't get sick then!" Argues Mickey, snatching the fag from Ian's lips so he can steal a drag. It's odd to think about something as small as that probably would have been unimaginable to the two of them a year ago. If someone told Past-Ian that Mickey Milkovich would casually grab his fag and share a beer with him as they talk, he would have called them insane. (He also probably would have asked what the fuck he was doing even being near Mickey).
They move on from the discussion after that; Ian has become pretty good over the months at learning when to stop with Mickey. Sitting side by side in silence as the Moon retreats behind the clouds, darkness shrouds them, hiding away their secret as they go for round two and make some idle chatter. Nobody can hurt them here, this is one of the only places where they can just be themselves without fear of the outside. In their own twisted way, Ian thinks Mickey may be one of the only people that get him- even if the Milkovich never shows it. He's sure that Mickey doesn't really like him, more or less tolerates him. At least, he certainly doesn't like him in the way Ian knows he likes Mickey, but he thinks they understand him nonetheless. And, Ian is sure he understands Mickey just as well. They're two sides of one coin. So, Ian relishes in the time they have before real life's harsh grasp can chase them away again.
They slink back to their houses as the Sun invasively shines light on their activities and brings a new reminder of how they will never be able to have what they want.
-
Mickey just nods at Gallagher when he walks into Kash 'n Grab for his shift. Gallagher nods back equally neutral and resumes reading a magazine behind the counter. Fumbling his 'SECURITY' jacket on with a struggle, Mickey makes sure the door fully closes. It's cold as hell in this place! Linda's too cheap for proper heating in the store- especially with a new baby on the way and with The Nonce having scampered off to lick his wounds. Good riddance, Mickey thinks, he's always hated Kash.
Though he'll never admit it, he's certain Gallagher was right last night. (First time for everything, he supposes). Mickey feels like shit: one of his nostrils is fully plugged with snot while the other is dry as a bone, his head feels like it's had a baseball bat taken to it, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been shivering all day. Deep down, part of Mickey is aware that essentially everyone gets a cold every now and then. But, he can't go round looking like a pussy, can he? It'd knock down not only his appearance but the Milkovich family's too. That's the last thing he needs.
There are three kids browsing the back of the store, so he doesn't say a word, he only stands intimidatingly by the register. Two of the kids pay and leave without a fuss- even if Mickey is ninety-percent sure that he heard them mentioning getting some guns- while the remaining little fatso tries to make a break for it with some chocolate bars. All Mickey does is kick out his foot to send the little boy rolling, but he's still happy with himself when the kid does the walk of shame to the register to pay Gallagher, who accepts the payment with a cocky grin. He can't tell if his cheeks go as red as they feel, so he turns around anyway for good measure and just watches the kid waddle off to go join his pals outside.
"Wanna lock the door?" Gallagher pipes up, eyebrow raised. And god he does want to, it's normally the only good thing about his day, but his entire body feels like utter rubbish from whatever cold he's fighting. He sniffs his nose, lazily wiping it with his sleeve as he sits on the register-table. "I'm- uhm- not really in the mood today." He sighs, trying to make his voice firm enough to prevent further questions. The silence that follows lasts just long enough for Mickey to think Ian's either upset or simply moving on right until Ian stands up and locks the door anyway. "I said I'm not in the mood." he repeats, frowning as his eyes follow Gallagher going back behind the register.
Gallagher doesn't make squeak, which is weird because normally he jabbers Mickey's ear off about random bullshit. Instead, he kneels down behind the counter and re-emerges with a brown paper back. He plops it down on the counter beside him. "What's this?" he asks, peeking over the bag. At first, he thinks the small pill bottle is full of drugs or something until he turns the bright orange bottle around in his palm. Paracetamol. "I think you need a new dealer or something; what the hell is Paracetamol?" he asks.
"Cold medicine, idiot." he elaborates, pointing to the instructions on the bottle. His cold waivers for just a second as he reflects on the fact that Gallagher went out his way to get this for him. He's quick to recover, not letting the smile win over his face. "I'm not sick." he insists again, to which Gallagher just insincerely nods along. Instead, he clicks his tongue and opens the bottle, putting one of the tablets into his mouth. Gallagher reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a bottle of water, gesturing for him to use it to help swallow the 'Paracetamol'. Mickey just cockily smiles, downing the little white tablets without it. "Really? You're taking them dry?" he deadpans, watching with something akin to impressment. He grins once the Paracetamol is fully down, even if it does make his throat feel uncomfortable, "Yep!" Gallagher just smiles and returns to the magazine he's been reading- and Mickey elects to ignore the 'dumbass' that he hears the ginger grumble.
He doesn't think he has ever actually had cold medicine before. Normally, he just firms it until it goes away or nicks some extra blankets and warm clothes. Mandy has, and she's tried to convince him that it'd be fine if he took some medicine, but he just hates the idea of it. Instead, weed tends to do enough to push the discomfort away long enough for him to 'man up'. But Gallagher got it for him. And his smile doesn't scream 'this is embarrassing for you' but more...something that Mickey can't describe. All he knows is that there's no malice behind it.
He's about to toss the paper bag in the garbage when he notices something else in the bottom. At first he assumes it is a mistake, pulling it out and tossing it right at Gallagher. "Why's there an apple in the bag? You making me a pack lunch or something?" he teases just as Gallagher catches the apple. He takes a bite out of the apple before throwing it back to Mickey- and shit that's hot enough to make him consider whether or not it's worth powering through the cold to head to the back- and breaks out into a wide smile. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away." He jokes, shrugging before calmly resuming to reading whatever the hell it is that he reads.
And, yep, Mickey decides it's worth to power through the cold. Because this guy is fucking brilliant.