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When Mickey was ten or so, his mom drove him to one of those county fairs a few miles away. She didn’t take any of his brothers or Mandy or anyone else, and she bought him a bit of cotton candy and let him gawk at the pig racing for a while.
A week later she was dead. ‘Some kind of cancer’ is all Terry will ever say when he asks.
She was a big lady, his mom, which Mandy always likes to point out when he gets back from fucking Angie Zaggo. (Edible complex, Iggy says, and Mandy laughs and says it’s a sad world when Mickey’s got the brains of the family.) He didn’t get to go on any of the shitty rides that day; his mom said it was because he’d puke up his food, but really it was because she wouldn’t fit.
It’s always that stupid fair that Mandy uses when she bitches about him being the favorite child though, like one afternoon of sunburns and sweets could make up for ten years of not giving a shit.
“And then she bought you your own fucking happy meal on the ride home and stuck us with the shitty cold fries for dinner,” Mandy will say and Iggy will nod gravely, like limp French fries are the fucking height of traumatic childhood experiences.
If there’s anything that day at the fair taught him, it’s not that his mom loved him any better than his brothers and sister. It’s that when people look back at the past, they’re only seeing the standout moments, never the whole fucking picture.
**
“You should come back to school,” Gallagher says, slurring his words slightly. “We’re reading this book, think you’d like it.”
“Fuck off. Only fags go to summer school.”
“Lord of the Flies,” he continues, like Mickey didn’t even say anything. Honestly, sometimes Mickey thinks if Gallagher could just figure out a way to fuck his own ass he’d have found his perfect relationship. “It’s about these kids stranded on an island and they kill off the weakest links.”
Mickey tugs the joint out of Gallagher’s fingers and pushes him towards the dugout. “Like Survivor?”
“Yeah, but real. And I think they fuck a pig.” Mickey blinks at him, and Gallagher whispers, like it’s a secret or some shit, “Reading between the lines, I mean.”
“I ain’t never fucked a pig,” Mickey says, because there’s not a whole lot else to say to that.
But Gallagher’s face lights up at that, in that way that Mickey has learned to dread. “Oh, are we playing that game?”
“Jesus, we’re not playing any games, we’re getting stoned.” That’s the problem with Gallagher; he’s always got to be doing something, he can never just be. Can’t just fuck, gotta talk about it, can’t just read a damn book, gotta analyze the thing.
“I’ve never fucked a chick,” Gallagher says loudly, and Mickey stares at him.
“No shit, dumbass.”
“You have to take a drink.”
“What, to celebrate the fact you’re a fag?”
“That’s how the game—how have you never played this shit before? You drink if you’ve done it. It’s not hard.” He’s looking at Mickey like he’s a bit retarded, which is pretty rich given that it took him three tries to get the joint between his lips, he’s so trashed.
But he’s got no reason not to, so he takes a swig. Of course that’s not good enough though, since Gallagher’s already staring at him expectantly again. “Your turn,” he says slowly, and Mickey throws the empty can at his head. “Say something you’ve never done.”
“I’ve never been a total pussy before.”
He’s got to give some props to the kid: he can give a damn good stink eye even when he’s about ten minutes from passing out. But then he takes a sip, which sort of ruins the effect.
“I’ve never had a threesome.” Mickey scowls, but he doesn’t drink. Gallagher grins triumphantly, which is stupid, because chances are he won’t even remember this in the morning.
“Fuck off. I’ve never fucked a guy twice my age.” Gallagher pauses, holding the can halfway to his lips, his mouth moving silently like he’s trying to do the math. “Just drink, would you?” Mickey says impatiently, and Gallagher does.
“He was twenty nine,” he points out sullenly. “I’ve never…stolen my brother’s spot at West Point because I’m a smug asshole.”
Mickey sighs, irritated. He should’ve known this had something to do with Lip; Gallagher was being a little bitch all day at the store before deciding he wanted to get blitzed, and he still won’t explain why there was fucking fruit all over the floor. Pretty clean store his ass. “I’ve never not had sex right now,” he says, and enjoys Gallagher’s furrowed brow as he tries to work out what he’s said. “Jesus, just take off your pants.”
“I think they felt bad in the end,” Gallagher says a while later, when Mickey’s on his knees feeling around for his right shoe under the bench and trying to remember how it got kicked off to begin with. “About what they did to Piggy.”
“Huh?” Ah, the stupid book. That’s another problem with Gallagher; he sobers up way too quick. “Well they should. Bestiality’s fucked up man, even by my standards.”
Gallagher stares at him, and the lights around the park are weird, throwing his face half in shadows. Then he snorts out a laugh and says, “You should read the book.”
**
He doesn’t, because this shit with Gallagher might be a lot of things, but one thing it’s not is a fucking book club.
But a few months later, when he’s back in juvie and bored out of his skull, maybe he happens to see it in the library. And maybe he picks it up, just for something to do.
And maybe it takes him a few weeks because he’s not all that interested, but maybe he does finish it eventually. It’s actually pretty fucking twisted, which makes him respect Gallagher a bit more.
He still has no clue what the kid was going on about that night, but he thinks getting stranded on an island wouldn’t be so bad, really. As long as like, Lip, or worse, Mandy, wasn’t there or anything, it might actually be fun. Sex and hunting all day, he doesn’t really get the problem.
**
“Wanna fuck later?” It’s sort of a given, but Mickey figures Gallagher’s gay enough that he likes to be asked every once in a while anyway.
“Can’t. Got plans.”
“Viagroid should help with that.”
Gallagher furrows his brow in confusion before snorting. “It’s my little brother’s birthday.”
“Oh.” Not that he cared, or anything. But who knows where that wrinkly old cock has been, and Mickey has no intention of getting the clap.
“You want to come?”
Mickey stares at him until Gallagher’s face flushes all the way down his neck and he looks away. “Whatever man, I was just asking.”
“Well don’t. What the fuck would I do at a ten year old’s birthday party, anyway?”
“Blow up balloon animals? You’re awfully good with your—“
Gallagher ends up being pretty late to his lame-ass party, and Mickey is so pleased with himself for the rest of the day that even Mandy yells at him to wipe that smug look off his face.
**
It’s a lot more effort to sneak into the Sox game than it’s worth, considering they get in an hour late and just end up screwing in a bathroom stall and missing the whole seventh inning.
“That was a terrible idea. I’ve got bruises all over.”
It actually was pretty stupid, when he thinks about it. But worth it for seeing Gallagher almost fall into the toilet.
“Whatever, you were the horny one.” Mickey lights up and bats Gallagher’s hands away when he tries to pull the cigarette from his mouth.
“I had to take a shit, you’re the one that followed me in there.”
“Not how I’m tellin’ it,” he says and hands the cig over.
“Bullshit,” Gallagher says through a laugh that puffs out smoke. “You’re not telling anyone. First rule of interrogation: whoever talks controls the story, and you’re too much of a pussy to admit it to anyone.”
“First rule of interrogation is you don’t snitch. Who the fuck would you even tell?” Mickey’s pretty sure at one point Gallagher was intimidated by him; he misses that time. Now he just rolls his eyes. “You better not be telling your asshole brother I’m some kind of bitch.”
“You could always tell your side. Explain how you’re only my bitch in bed.” Gallagher raises a brow challengingly, and Mickey can’t help but rise to the bait. He makes a grab for Gallagher’s neck, but he darts out of the way and runs, laughing like the asshole he is.
Mickey chases after him, but the kid’s obnoxiously fast. It’s dark out and they left the game early, so no one’s out on the streets and Mickey doesn’t hesitate when he gets close enough to tackle Gallagher to the ground.
He’s got him pinned in an alley a few yards from the street. A rat squeaks and runs by when Gallagher thrashes an arm out. “Say you’re my bitch,” Mickey orders, grinning despite himself and pulsing with adrenaline. “Say it.”
Gallagher raises his hands in surrender, and Mickey sits back a bit, taking the opportunity to rub up against his crotch. It’s dangerous, is what it is. Anyone could walk by at any minute, but want is thrumming through him and he’s just about to shuck off his pants when Gallagher bucks hard and flips them, twisting one of Mickey’s arms behind his back as he goes like some ninja shit.
“Not a fucking chance,” he whispers in his ear, and then the weight is off his back and Mickey chokes out a laugh into the pavement.
“The fuck are you doing?” he demands when he catches up to Gallagher a few blocks on.
With an exaggerated eye roll Gallagher points at the golden arches. “What do you think?”
“You think I’m buying you dinner you’ve got another thing coming,” he says, but follows him into the restaurant.
“I’ve still got to take a dump, Mickey. Just wait out here.”
Mickey loiters around for a minute, digging in his pockets for change. The cashier eyes him suspiciously which, yeah, fair enough. He’s pretty sure Iggy hit this place up not too long ago. He glances at the door; he could just leave. Not like there’s any reason to stay, or anything.
“Fuck it,” he mutters and follows Gallagher into the bathroom.
Second time’s the charm and all that.
**
“No. No, no, definitely not, Ian, no.”
This is actually a better greeting than Mickey was expecting.
“C’mon, Linda, hear him out.” Gallagher looks at him expectantly and Mickey raises his hands, “Hey, this wasn’t my idea.”
Gallagher scowls at him. Actually it was his idea this time, but he didn’t think it through.
“I gave him a chance and he threw it away. He stole from my register, Ian. You’re lucky I didn’t fire you.”
“I only took what I was owed,” Mickey defends, and shoots Gallagher a glare. He was supposed to explain that.
“I decide how much you’re owed, Mickey. Now get the hell outta my store.”
“He’ll take a pay cut. And cover Tuesday afternoons so you can take the boys to soccer.”
“Uh, ow, fuck, Gallagher.”
“And, um, open on the weekends so you can sleep in. And he’ll take care of the store during school hours until summer.”
“Are you fucking—jesus.”
“And he’ll clean up any messes. You know, to make up for that time his dad trashed the place.”
Linda glares at Gallagher for a long moment before throwing her hands up in the air. “It’s on your head, Ian.”
Mickey waits patiently until she leaves an hour later, shooting suspicious looks at him the whole way out the door, before he rounds on Gallagher.
“You’re a shit haggler. You could’ve stopped at pay cut.”
“Probably.” And he’s wearing the smuggest grin that it takes all of his willpower not to knock his damn teeth out.
“You fucking—“
“Shut up. And try not to fuck this up again, if I lose this job Fiona’ll kill me.” Mickey stares at him and tries to figure out when exactly Gallagher grew a pair. Annoying as it is, it's sort of hot.
Finally he turns away to dig out his old security vest from his bag. “If the bitch didn’t fire you for screwing her husband, she’s never gonna do it.”
Even Gallagher has to concede that point.
**
“Slow day,” Mickey says, wiping sweat from his brow. Gallagher grunts in response and redirects the fan for the thousandth time, like he hasn’t figured out the damn thing moves on its own.
“Wanna close up and fuck in the storeroom?”
“No,” Gallagher says, flipping the pages of a magazine and not even bothering to look up.
“Wanna close up and fuck on the counter?”
“No.”
Mickey bites his thumbnail and looks outside. “Wanna close up and fuck against the frozen food aisle?”
Gallagher pauses mid-flip; contemplates. “Yeah, all right.”
**
Mickey always kind of thought Gallagher was a bit of a pushover. It’s not like there wasn’t any evidence, what with letting him and Mandy and his brother and Frank and everyone else walk right over him.
It was convenient, really. For Mickey, anyway. Cause he’s a self-aware guy and so he can admit that apologies aren’t one of his strong points. Mainly cause he never does them.
So the fact that he can apparently say what-the-fuck-ever to Gallagher and the kid will still be hanging around like a kicked puppy works out well.
Except, as it turns out, there are limits to even Gallagher’s easygoing attitude. And there are no helpful “STOP HERE DUMBASS, NO SERIOUSLY, SHUT THE FUCK UP’ signs pointing to where exactly those limits are, which is a problem because they’re completely fucking arbitrary.
Not that he gives a shit, or anything, but it’s been three days since he’s gotten laid and he’s starting to go insane. And being cooped up in this stupid fucking store while Gallagher just looks at him isn’t helping.
It’s not even an angry look, or disappointed, or anything. It’s just blank. And no amount of baiting him can get a reaction.
It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.
The bell over the door clangs and Mickey nearly sags in relief, then wants to blow his brains out for being such a girl.
“Hey, man,” Gallagher says cheerfully when his brother comes in, and Mickey resists the urge to bang his head against the wall. “What do you need?”
It’s not like Mickey doesn’t know he’s just doing it to get under his skin. Which is why it’s so irritating that it’s actually working.
“Fuck this shit,” he says, pushing himself off the wall. “I’ve got better shit to do.” He directs the comment at Gallagher, but all he gets is thinly veiled amusement from his older brother. He slams the door extra hard on his way out.
This would be easier if he had any clue what set Gallagher off. But all he knows is that one minute the kid was talking about some girly shit while unzipping Mickey’s jeans and getting on his knees and then, like the polite fucker he is, Mickey took up his side of the conversation while Gallagher was otherwise occupied. The next minute there was the harsh scrape of teeth against sensitive skin, a howl of pain, and the loudest silence Mickey has ever known.
Bastard didn’t even apologize for violating sacred blowjob etiquette.
Mickey had (rightfully) been pretty pissed off for the rest of that day, so Gallagher acting like a little bitch hadn’t really registered until the day after, when he woke up with a hard on and decided he was ready to forgive and forget.
And then he’d gotten stonewalled.
But Milkoviches can be stubborn bastards too, and all he has to do is wait him out. After all, if he’s not getting sex, neither is Gallagher and there’s only so long that can last.
Except.
So it’s with the image of that old, wrinkly cunt pounding into Gallagher that he makes a peace offering on the fifth day.
“Ow, fuck!” Gallagher jumps out of his chair and his hands clap over his ass. Mickey smothers a smile behind his magazine and feigns disinterest.
A minute passes in silence, and he watches Gallagher study the seat out of the corner of his eye and waits.
Finally: “Did you. Did you actually put a thumbtack on my chair?” Gallagher says, like he can’t quite believe he’s asking that question.
“Prove it,” Mickey says, just to watch Gallagher’s face go all red.
“Are you fucking—what are we, in fourth grade?” Mickey shrugs and grins toothily.
Gallagher mutters under his breath and glares at Mickey over customers’ shoulders for the rest of their shift, but he’s not ignoring him anymore so mission accomplished.
But, as it turns out, not very well thought out.
The next day his security vest disappears somewhere between the hate sex and the makeup sex, and when it reappears the day after it’s covered in unicorn stickers.
“Did you just have these lying around?” he demands, but Gallagher just looks at him with that stupid, who me? face and reminds him about company dress codes, which is a total load of shit.
So he’s entirely justified when he drops a laxative or six into Gallagher’s soda the next day.
By the time things have escalated to the Pineapple Incident, they’re forced to call a truce or get fired by Linda, who is pretty fucking terrifying when she’s pissed.
“I bet you pissed yourself when she found out you were fucking Kash,” Mickey says in their third hour of scrubbing duty.
“Fuck off.” He doesn’t deny it though. “She did punch me,” he adds after a minute.
“Should’ve punched him,” Mickey mutters.
Gallagher grins at him and, before Mickey can register the warning glint in his eyes, dumps the entire bucket of soapy water on Mickey's head.
**
They’ve fucked about half a dozen times before they have their first conversation. It goes something like this:
“Hey, wait up,” Gallagher says, one foot propped on a shelf as he clumsily ties up his shoe.
“What?” He’s got his eye on a couple Snickers bars and an energy drink; wonders if the afterglow is enough to make the kid overlook him stealing them.
“I get off in ten minutes.”
“And?”
“You should stick around, maybe we can do something.”
He looks all hopeful, and it’s not like Mickey actually has anything to do. But there’s something about this thing they’ve got going that’s just plain weird. In the past, Mickey’s always been able to get by with one or two of those kinds of fucks every few months and he’s fine. But ever since Gallagher fucked him a few weeks back, suddenly it’s gone from once a month if he’s lucky to once a day and he’s still craving more.
It’s just an access thing, he tells himself. He’s got a willing and discrete piece of ass right in front of him, it would be stupid not to get while the getting is good.
Gallagher’s still looking at him with those wide, imploring eyes and Mickey says, “Fuck off, fag,” and walks out.
Best to keep this thing in control, is all.
**
“You’re full of shit.”
“Fuck off, you have no taste.”
“Marvel is the shit, man.”
“DC’s got the classics though. Superman, Green Arrow, Aquaman—“
“Aquaman? That’s your argument? Fucking Aquaman? The only good thing DC ever made was The Green Lantern. With Marvel we’re talking Wolverine, the Hulk, Spider-man—”
“Yeah, and the Fantastic Four, the biggest pussies of all the superheroes. DC’s got Batman, beat that.”
“Batman’s just a bitch with a fancy suit. If I was rich, I could be Batman.”
“Are you kidding? He’s a vigilante who trained for years to avenge his parents deaths! All those other guys were just born with their powers, or got bit by fucking spiders. This guy worked for it, put in the effort—“
“The only effort he put in was in loosening that faggot Robin’s tight asshole.”
“If Batman is just a bitch in a suit, what does that make Iron Man?”
“Fucking Robert Downey Jr., that’s what.”
**
“You know what I miss?”
“Your balls.” Gallagher rolls his eyes and throws the stupid blue nerf ball at Mickey’s head. They’ve been tossing it back and forth for over an hour because there’s fuck-all to do in this store and Linda reamed them out for taking too many fuck breaks earlier that week.
(“You fucking told her?” “No I didn’t tell her. Jesus, she’s got security cameras all over this place, what did you think was gonna happen?”)
“Fucking in a bed. With like, pillows and shit.”
“You want roses too, faggot?” Gallagher glares and lets the ball sail past him to land behind the register. “C’mon, we had a streak going.”
Ever since he got out of juvie they haven’t fucked at Mickey’s house. It's risky with his dad around, and they don’t have to anymore, what with Kash out of the picture and Mickey working at the store. It’s way more convenient and means that Mickey gets laid twice as often, so he’s not complaining, even if his legs are a little sore.
As gay as it is though, he can sort of see Gallagher’s point. But Mickey’s not about to go over to the halfway house Gallagher calls a home and get walked in on by seventeen different people before he can get his pants off.
But he’s a Milkovich, and they’re nothing if not creative.
“Where the fuck are we going?” Gallagher asks two days later as they round a corner.
“Would you stop fucking asking me that?”
Mickey ignores the grumbling from behind him and keeps walking.
“If you’re trying to find a ditch to dump my body in, you should know I could take you in a fight.”
“Shut up, already, we’re here.”
Gallagher looks at the house, then at Mickey, then back at the house. “It’s a house,” he says, because he’s a fucking dumbass.
“It’s old Butterface’s house.”
“You made me walk all this way to look at Dottie’s house?”
“It was twenty minutes, you pussy.”
“Didn’t she just die or something?” Gallagher’s eying him suspiciously now, like he thinks Mickey brought him here to do a job on a dead person’s house. Which actually isn’t that bad of an idea.
“Are you coming or what?”
“To do what?”
“You said you wanted to fuck in a bed.”
“You want to fuck in a dead lady’s house?”
“Well, no. I figured we’d just take the mattress…”
“And bring it where?” Gallagher asks carefully, like he’s dreading the answer.
“I don’t know, the storeroom?”
“You want to put a mattress in the storeroom.”
Mickey shrugs.
“Have you ever had a job before?”
“Fuck off. If you’re too scared of ghosts or whatever, we can just go.”
The great thing about Gallagher is that he’s so fucking easy to manipulate. He’s over the fence and up the steps before Mickey’s even done talking.
“Where do you think the bedroom is?” Gallagher whispers. He stumbles through the unlocked door and curses when he stubs his toe on the leg of a chair.
Mickey flicks the light on, because he’s not an idiot.
“Upstairs, probably. Why the fuck are you taking your shoes off?”
“I don’t know, respect?”
“You’re such a fucking…” he trails off when he finds the steps and takes them two at a time.
When they finally find the bed, which really does look more comfortable than having his head shoved up against a fence or a shelf of baked beans, Gallagher stops dead.
“What?” Mickey demands, pulling his shirt over his head.
“We can’t fuck here,” Gallagher says, his face pale.
“Why the fuck not?”
The kid looks at him with wide, terrified eyes, and for a minute Mickey wonders if he really does believe in ghosts.
“Frank was fucking Dottie, remember?”
Ah.
Gross.
Mickey studies the bed doubtfully. “We could take off the sheets.”
“I can smell him in here. Cheap beer and b.o.”
With one last mournful glance at the pillows, Mickey follows Gallagher down the stairs. “How about the couch?”
“What was that?” Gallagher whispers, stopping dead on the last step.
“The couch. You know, to fuck on.”
“Shut up. There’s someone here.”
“The ghost of Butterface come to haunt—oh shit.” Mickey ducks behind a chair as the door pushes open, ignoring the dirty look Gallagher shoots him from his place on the staircase.
It’s a blonde woman, carrying a bag of groceries in with her. “That must be Dottie’s daughter,” Gallagher murmurs.
“Thanks, genius, that’s really fucking helpful.”
“Is someone there?”
They both freeze and look at each other. Gallagher mouths ‘run’ and Mickey shakes his head vigorously. If they just wait it out, the bitch will go to bed and they can sneak out in peace.
But because Gallagher never listens to a word he says, a minute later he’s being yanked by the collar and pulled towards the door.
There are no sirens, no gunshots, nothing exciting at all. The lady screams like a fucking banshee when they make a break for the door, but other than that they’re home free.
It’s sort of disappointing, in a twisted way. He didn’t even get a good fuck out it.
“Shit. I left my shoes.”
On second thought, it’s fucking hilarious.
(Much, much later when Gallagher tells him the story about Frank literally fucking old Butterface to death, even Mickey has to admit he’s glad they didn’t go through with it on that bed.)
**
“Would you stop that?” Mickey growls, fidgeting again in a vain attempt to get comfortable.
“You got shot. In the ass.”
“I know.”
“Who the fuck gets shot in the ass?”
“I don’t know why you’re so gleeful about this, it’s your fucking fault.”
“My ex had to dig a bullet out of your ass, Mickey.” And then he collapses into another fit of laughter like the piece of shit he is.
“Why did you have to steal a grandfather clock?”
Mickey’s never hated his cousins more than he does in that moment, not even when they held his head in a clogged toilet.
“It looked expensive, all right?”
“Was it worth it?”
“I fucking hate you.”
Gallagher turns away but Mickey still catches his smile, small and secret, like he doesn’t believe a word Mickey’s saying. Mickey fucking hates it.
So he blames the drugs for why he’s smiling too, just a little.
**
The army, Mickey decides, is pretty much exactly what’s wrong with the world. Cause when people get blown up protecting their country, that’s all anyone ever remembers about them. That they’re a fucking hero, or how many fucking medals they can’t wear cause they’re dead.
No one thinks about dead soldiers and remembers the stupid shit they got up to when they were kids, or all the hours they spent blowing up zombies on video games. An entire fucked up life whitewashed and replaced by a few minutes of heroics.
He thinks about pointing this out to Gallagher sometimes, when they’re lacing up their shoes after a fuck or when he’s restocking shelves, but then absolutely nothing at all happens and he doesn’t do it anyway.
Later, he wonders if in ten years all he’ll remember is the wedding, and the beatings, and the Night of Five Times.
Then he figures he’ll probably be dead in ten years and none of this really matters anyway.
(But while it lasts, it’s fucking awesome)