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The ladder is wobbling even before the gangly redhead is on it. Mickey thinks his entire process is ridiculous— he’s bound to fall down and break his neck at this rate. And it is such a process. For every light the kid hangs, they not only have to move the ladder but also the bench that its back legs sit precariously on. Mickey’s primary task at lighting crew is essentially to help Gallagher move the ladder from each spot he needs to hang an instrument, but his secondary role of steadying the back of the ladder so that the guy doesn’t fall down and crack his skull open on one of the seats or the cheap nylon carpeted-floor.
Mickey watches the ginger kid’s ass with intent disinterest as he bends over to to hook a steel safety wire onto the old bell-shaped par can. The adjustable crescent wrench tucked into the back pocket of his snug work jeans must spend a lot of time in there. The material is frayed and threatening to give up the ghost completely in almost a perfect outline of the crescent. And the knurl is already poking through. No, he isn’t scoping out Gallagher’s ass. It’s just so noticeable on those tall, spindly legs of his.
Gallagher turns around and he is practically beaming. Mickey cannot for the life of him figure out how this guy grew up, managed to get all the way to adulthood, in his old neighborhood walking around with a smile that lights up a room like a ray of sunshine without getting his ass whooped on the regular. Sure, his smile is crooked but other than that, it’s like Gallagher was born to draw the eye.
Coppery red hair that reminds Mickey of the way a brand-new penny catches the light, green eyes that evoke a verdant forest canopy. Pretty little dimples and constellations of light brown freckles that contrast against his fair, almost pale complexion. With the exception of that crooked smile of his, everything is perfectly symmetrical. Christ, it’s like a sculptor chiseled him out of marble for the express goal of beautifying the area around him. How did the rough and tumble life of the Back of the Yards let him get all the way to age twenty without a cracked tooth or even a broken nose for his troubles?
And he’s just so... so chipper all the damn time. Nothing seems to faze him. Mickey swears it’s as though the happy-go-lucky little ginger kid he remembers from little league just had his brain transplanted into an adult body.
Gallagher’s utterly “can-do” attitude would be less frustrating if he recognized Mickey at all. Okay, granted it was over ten years ago, and they were only nine and eleven back then. And Mickey certainly doesn’t remember the other boys’ names or faces. But he was the only kid on the team that seemed to like him that Summer. Ian was the only one who showed him any kindness on the worst day of his life.
But then again, it must have been another summer day for Gallagher.
“Okay, ready to go,” announces the sophomore as he holds the lighting instrument up in one hand, gripping the yoke as though he were holding a kettlebell at the gym.
Mickey does a last-minute adjustment to make sure the ladder is as centered as possible on the wooden bench and braces it carefully as he watches Gallagher ascend.
Looking up at Gallagher as he works his side hustle, he tries not to think of certain things. He is definitely not trying to picture thick bare thighs with a dusting of orange red hair. Most definitely not imagining those strong arms do anything except grip the iron-wrought gridwork of pipes as he wrenches the C-Clamp of the instrument into place. Like hell if he wants to know if that snake in his Levi’s is real. He isn’t even curious about the texture of the guy’s hair or whether he has soft lips. He isn’t thinking about any of that. No fucking way.
“You okay down there?”
“Huh?”
“I haven’t heard you trash talk anyone in five minutes. I thought you might’ve died down there while I wasn’t looking.” Mickey can practically hear the smile, even though right now Gallagher is looking up and Mickey can really only see his square chin.
“Fuck you, I’m not always shit-talking.”
“You sure have Robin fooled. And Quinn.”
“Yeah? Well, Quinn’s a cunt.”
Ian laughs. “Can’t disagree with you there.”
“And Robin’s got that whole suburban liberal white lady thing going for her. Can’t take her seriously.”
“Yeah? But she means well. And aren’t you from Pittsburgh? What are you doing knocking suburban white ladies?”
Mickey can’t help but retaliate. Just a little. He rattles the ladder just enough to make Ian nervous.
“Hey! Watch it!”
“Pittsburgh’s a city, dumbass. And I just ended up living with family out there. I’m Chicago born and bred, same as you. Dick.”
“Seriously?” he sounds relieved. “Thank fuck, I thought I was going crazy. Your accent sounds so familiar. You South Side?”
Yes, dumbass.
“None of your business, Gallagher.”
Do you seriously not recognize me? Or even the name Milkovich? Then again, maybe the Milkovich name doesn’t evoke the same dread it used to with Terry holed up for life.
“Hey, sorry. My bad for trying to make small talk.”
“Why do you do this, anyway? You’re an acting major, right? And Lysander ain’t exactly a bit part. This has gotta be time consuming.”
“It’s no big deal. I still got plenty of time to run lines.”
“Yeah, but I mean—this isn’t what you plan to do, right?”
“I could ask the same about you, piano man?”
“I’m here because the odds of a music teacher being asked to put together Christmas concerts and spring plays is almost guaranteed.”
Mickey cannot help but notice Ian locking eyes with him as he comes down the rungs of the ladder. “You think I’m just going to be guaranteed roles when I get out of here, Milkovich? I got to be realistic here. Not everyone makes it. I want to have option so I don’t end up waiting tables at my sister’s diner while I wait for an opportunity that may never come. Besides, Fiona’s already on my case. She thinks I’m wasting my full ride on a joke major. At least I can pull my weight the next time they need the wiring fixed.”
“Why lights?” Mickey asks. “Why not building sets or painting or costumes. Something where there’s less chance of falling off a ladder or accidentally electrocuting yourself?”
Ian seems to think about this, sitting on the tiered steps that lead from the back of the House to the lip of the stage. “Let’s just say when you come from a big family, you learn the importance of making sure everyone gets their time in the spotlight.”
Schmaltzy motherfucker, ain't he? “Everyone deserves a time to shine, huh?”
Ian shoots Mickey a grin that makes the pianist nervous and makes his stomach feel like it’s practicing for the Olympic gymnastics team. “Yeah, everyone. Even surly piano players.”
“Hey, leave me out of this,” replies Mickey hotly, trying not to meet Ian’s gaze. “I want folks hearing my playing. I could give fuck all if they get a good look at my face. Maybe my hands. But just to show off the technique.”
Ian takes a brazenly confident step into Mickey’s personal space. He wonders why his palms feel so damp all of the sudden and when the air started to feel so thin.
“You know there’s nothing wrong with letting people see you, right?”
“Yeah? Food for thought, huh?” coughs Mickey nervously, “Eh! So how many of these things do we have to hang?”
They still have to hang enough instruments to light up an entire stage. But that’s nothing compared to what Mickey feels light up inside him when Gallagher locks eyes with him, when he gets in Mickey’s space and talks to him like he sees through Mickey’s bullshit. It makes everything around Mickey feel brighter.